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Ten Days in Springtime
by Isidore (no address provided)

***

Set in an all-boys boarding school in England in 
the 1970s, when the first afternoon of love between 
a 17-year-old boy and a housemaster's daughter has 
painful consequences... but the story doesn't end 
there. (mf-teens, 1st, oral, mast, rom, preg,
male adult/teenboy, corporal punishment, homoerotic)

***

Sunday afternoon

It was a warm Sunday afternoon in spring, midway 
through the Easter term, the air was filled with 
the scent of blossom and rising sap as Charlie 
strolled under the weeping cherry trees on his way 
back to his boarding house. His route took him past 
one of the other houses, Lutyens, where some of his 
friends boarded; he glanced across the rolling, 
manicured lawns, inhaled the smell of new-mown 
grass and toyed with the idea of dropping in to see 
them, but remembered that they were away on a 
hockey tour. As he passed the main gate of Lutyens 
he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

'Hi Charlie.' 

He stopped, turned; his stomach and groin lurched. 
In the doorway of the house was Sophie Buckler. Her 
father, Dr Buckler, was the housemaster and taught 
Latin and Greek; Charlie was in his final year 'A' 
level Latin set and wanted to read Classics at 
Oxford. The exams were next term, then came 
Oxbridge entrance in the autumn, so the pressure 
was on.  

'Oh, hi Sophie.' They smiled at each other 
awkwardly, adolescent angst. She was wearing 
ordinary clothes, a short skirt, shirt and 
cardigan, while he was still in school uniform; he 
hadn't bothered to change after chapel, then there 
had been lunch, after which he had hung out with 
some friends. Suddenly he felt constrained, uncool 
in his stiff collar, waistcoat and black jacket.

She came down the front steps, nervously he 
strolled up the path towards her. Sophie wasn't a 
pupil at the school, - which was all boys - but 
went to a private convent school for girls in the 
town. Like him she was doing Latin, Greek and 
English for 'A' level and also wanted to go to 
Oxford. 

They occasionally bumped into each other around the 
grounds, he'd danced with her at a Lutyens house 
party once, and afterwards they had had a (very 
brief and fumbling) snog in the garden before her 
father appeared and Charlie had had to make himself 
scarce. Ever since then they had hovered in each 
other's subconscious, a distant, dreamlike memory. 
She had long blonde hair, - today it was tied back 
in an amber slide - grey eyes, and what he and the 
other boys regarded, from the height of their 17 
years, as a pair of perfect, tight little tits. He 
felt another gentle stirring in his groin. 

'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked, 
surreptitiously looking him up and down and 
trembling slightly. To her, Charlie Millais was one 
of the best-looking boys in the sixth form. She 
loved his mop of tousled chestnut hair that always 
looked as if he had just got out of bed, and which 
tumbled into his dark blue eyes with their 
diffident glints, his slender, retroussˇ nose, his 
willowy fingers (although like most boys his nails 
were scruffy and chewed), his still boyish but 
somehow virile figure... and especially that small, 
round, slightly protruding bottom. She and some of 
her classmates had noticed it while watching rugger 
matches, and once in the school swimming pool. 

Ah, that perfect bum - it was so cute! They would 
scream with laughter as they fantasized about 
stroking it. But most adorable of all, and despite 
being intelligent and good at sport, Charlie was 
shy. A girl only had to speak to him and his smooth 
cheeks would blush pink. She glanced at the area 
below his waistcoat, but the grey trousers were too 
baggy to give any clues about what lay beneath. 

'Err... yeah, okay, thanks,' he mumbled, '...but 
won't your father...?' There it was, that faint 
blush. God, he was so sexy!

'He and my mum and sister have gone to watch an 
away match, they won't be back till quite late 
tonight. I stayed behind to do some revision... 
like you, I suppose. So we'll have the place to 
ourselves.' 

'Okay,' he said, smiling diffidently. The way she 
said 'we' seemed to imply something more than a cup 
of tea. 

They went into the kitchen. Sophie made a pot of 
tea but neither of them drank more than a mouthful. 

'I'm stuck on a Latin translation, maybe you can 
give me a hand?'

'Sure.' 

A few minutes later they were up in her bedroom in 
the family's private wing of the large, rambling 
boarding house. Charlie was relieved to see that it 
was as untidy as his own, both here at school and 
at home. Tights and knickers were scattered 
everywhere, as if for his benefit.

The Latin problem was soon solved; in fact Sophie 
seemed to know the answer already, although she let 
Charlie explain it to her anyway. They discussed 
exam work, Oxford, Cambridge, other boys and girls, 
TV programmes, and then she put on an Abba record. 
Charlie didn't like it; he'd just bought Pink 
Floyd's latest, 'Wish you were here,' but gladly 
went along with her taste in music. 

He took off his jacket, threw it on a chair. Sophie 
smiled, looked at her books, out of the window, and 
then untied her hair. Sitting on the desk, she put 
her fingers in his waistcoat pockets, toyed with 
the buttons, gently drew him towards her. Charlie 
flushed pink again, held her hand in his long 
fingers. They looked each other in the eye, 
grinned, laughed, blushed... and then kissed. And 
kissed. Their tongues slipped back and forth, 
entwining, by now she had her arms round his waist, 
she could feel something stirring beneath the 
flannel of his trousers. 

'God, Charlie, you kiss so beautifully. It's really 
lovely, better than before. Do you remember that 
night in the garden?  But his time there's no one 
to interrupt us.' 

Of course he remembered. How could he ever forget? 
He had wanked himself silly over it hundreds of 
times since, shot cum right across his room in 
excited frustration. 

His dark blue eyes stared into her grey ones, and 
smiled. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, slipped off 
her cardigan, he was standing close to her, her 
legs either side of him, he could feel her soft 
skin stroking against his trousers. 

They kissed, kissed, kissed, kicked off their 
shoes, Charlie loosened his tie, Sophie pulled one 
end of it until it fell to the floor, undid his 
collar stud then slowly unbuttoned his shirt and 
slipped her hand inside, stroked his small, 
hardening nipples. He shuddered as her cool flesh 
touched his own. 

Soon he had her blouse undone, eased it over her 
soft, slight shoulders; within seconds his hands 
were round her back, fumbling with the fastener of 
her black bra. Wow, he thought, black underwear! 
Are her panties the same colour?

'Help me, Sophe,' he mumbled. 'I'm not much good 
with these clips.' 

'Glad to hear it,' she laughed, swiftly unfastening 
her bra and letting him gently pull it off. His 
hands were shaking - and so were hers. She watched 
his blue eyes as they took in her small, firm 
breasts, saw how he blushed again, bit his lower 
lip then ran the tip of his tongue along it. He 
kissed first one breast then the other, kissed back 
and forth, tickled her nipples with the darting 
pink tip of his tongue while she inhaled the warm 
silkiness of his hair which smelt faintly of fresh 
air and school shop shampoo, so simple, so all-over 
sexy. He'd had a shower that morning, she could 
tell, he wasn't one of those boys who take pride in 
washing as little as possible and stinking like a 
goat... although there was a faint hint of uneven 
yet healthy suint from the damp patches under his 
arms, he was warming up, not only out of 
awkwardness, she could feel the heat rising from 
his body, beginning to enfold her. 'God, he's 
gorgeous,' she thought, 'it's just like the other 
girls say, he's hot but he doesn't know it. I 
really want him to...'

She guided his hesitant fingers into the waistband 
of her skirt, helped him undo it, and soon she was 
stepping out of it, staring into his eyes as she 
eased off his shirt, let it fall to the floor with 
her own clothes, began to play with the buckle of 
his belt.

'Jesus!' he gasped, pressed his hardening crotch 
against hers, stroking his fingertips over her 
panties, which as he'd hoped were black... and 
ever-so slightly damp. 

'Oh God, oh God,' he repeated, running his fingers 
through her hair, kissing her over and over again, 
his tongue dancing with hers, moving back as he 
felt her fingers slipping into the top of his 
trousers, finding the clip, the button, tugging at 
the zip, easing, coaxing, all the time gazing into 
his eyes, breathing deeply, now she was kissing, 
biting his nipples. 

'Ouch!' he giggled. 

She bent down slightly, her blonde hair brushed his 
lips, his nose, he caught a scent of strawberries, 
she tugged at his trousers until they slid down his 
long, slim, coltish legs, he kicked them aside, 
there was an awkward, comical moment as he leant 
forward and went to take off his dark blue socks, 
their heads bumped together, they stumbled, 
giggled, then he was tugging at the toes of his 
socks, tossing them aside, releasing a brief, 
passing smell of warm leather, wool, sweet Sunday 
sweat - and there they were, naked except for their 
underwear, in each other's arms, kissing wildly, 
gasping, perspiring, delicate droplets forming on 
their backs and chests. 

'Navy blue briefs,' mused Sophie, looking down, 
rubbing her knuckles across the urgent bulge that 
was nuzzling against her thighs and pants. 'Just 
what I'd hoped, I wear navy blue knickers too 
sometimes, they make me feel so up for it, don't 
know why, they're so conservative... but these, on 
Charlie, oh God!'

'God, Charlie,' she said out loud, 'you're so sexy, 
you're...'

And she sat on the edge of the bed, her face level 
with his waist and its 'y' shaped, navy blue 
outline, eyes fixed on the mysterious shape beneath 
it, wanting desperately to pull his briefs down but 
telling herself that she wanted him to undress her 
first, she wanted to feel that unruly mop of hair 
between her thighs, feel his warm breath, his 
tongue on her...

She looked up, aware that her face was reddening, 
and noticed with relief and arousal that Charlie 
was blushing too, which made the cobalt blue of his 
wide eyes even more vivid. More than anything she 
wanted to see them staring up at her from between 
her thighs, seeking approval... Standing up, she 
pressed herself against him, - or as close as his 
now rigid bulge would allow - took his hands in 
hers and slipped his fingers - God, they were so 
cool, so slim, so delicate - into the top of her 
pants. As a hint it was unnecessary, because 
Charlie immediately eased them down, paused to 
stroke her soft pubic curls as they appeared from 
beneath the black cotton, then slipped them all the 
way down so she could step out of them. 

Soon his long, inquisitive index finger was delving 
its way into her, gently, gently, not wanting to 
let on that this was his first time, that this was 
unfamiliar but much longed-for territory, but 
hoping that it was hers (in fact they were both 
virgins); first the tip slid inside, she gasped, 
smiled, he grinned and probed as far as his first 
knuckle, then all the way, God it was so tight, so 
silky soft, so warm, so moist, already he felt 
fluid trickling down his finger and into his 
upturned palm... 

How odd that erotic refinements come so quickly and 
easily when you've agonized for years over whether 
you'll know what to do when the time comes, 
practised on household objects, your bed... Soon he 
established a rhythm, began to fuck her gently with 
his finger, took it out for a moment, sucked it 
then eased it back in again, past her trembling 
labia, aaah!   

Flushed, squirming, heating up, Sophie eased 
herself away, sat on the edge of the bed, leant 
back and looked up at the slim, handsome, almost 
naked boy above her. Slowly she parted her thighs. 
Charlie needed no further encouragement, 
immediately he was on his knees, easing her legs 
further apart, shuffling forward, briefs now 
straining urgently, and gingerly lowered his face 
towards the unfamiliar mound of curly light brown 
hair that was already glistening with tiny 
droplets. 

At first he held back, sniffed slightly to test the 
ground. There was a faintly salty, fish-paste smell 
that rather put him off but aroused him as well, 
yet there was warmth, sweet, soapy warmth, an 
indefinable muskiness that made his cock throb 
painfully as if it were about to explode.

'God, Charlie!' she gasped as his tongue darted 
into her, flicked back and forth like a lizard's, 
in, out, round and round, then he was coming up for 
air, she gazed down at him gazing up at her, 
grinning as he plucked a pubic hair from his soft, 
pointed tongue. His lips were suddenly rosy red and 
shiny with her moistness, the tip of his adorable 
nose was wet too, it glinted in the afternoon 
sunlight streaming through the window. He was 
glowing, almost incandescent.

'Afternoon sex,' thought Charlie. One of his 
friends, Johnny Templeton, who was always bragging 
about his conquests, said that fucking on a warm 
Sunday afternoon was the best; even if you'd had a 
good lunch you'd still be hungry, your bodies would 
somehow be more supple, the juices would flow more 
easily, more sweetly... the orgasms were better, 
longer, more intense, the hot cum squirted 
further... and yet it was so calm, so still, so 
relaxed. 

Lowering his head again, he ventured back into the 
musky-salt jungle, hoping that she wouldn't notice 
when he pulled pubic hairs off his lips and tongue, 
or made choking noises when he was getting out of 
breath. He wasn't sure which was the fabled 
clitoris, so he licked and stroked everything pink 
in the hope that he would find it, and seemed to 
hit the spot eventually. Sophie was loving it, 
Charlie seemed instinctively to know where to go, 
what to probe with his long, cool fingers. But what 
aroused her just as much was the soft, rhythmic 
sound of him lapping at her sex, easing the excited 
lips apart with his fingertips, it was like a puppy 
drinking a bowl of milk, every now and then she 
glimpsed his pink tongue glistening with her 
moistness as it paused before going back for more.   

'Stop, stop,' she breathed, ruffling his hair. 
Charlie looked up, abashed: had her hurt her, 
wasn't she enjoying it? But the expression on her 
face wasn't one of disappointment - far from it. It 
was clear that she wanted to taste him.

He got to his feet, and she sat up, her face level 
with his navy-blue clad crotch. She kissed the 
slightly damp, twitching bulge, ran her fingertips 
over it, noticed how it lurched forward, how 
Charlie was trembling, breathing heavily. She 
cupped his balls through the tightly stretched 
material: God, they were red hot! Shall I pull his 
briefs down quickly or slowly, she wondered? What 
will he like most? In the end she decided to 
compromise, and as she gradually eased them down, 
his rigid, straining sex sprung out from its hiding 
place and slapped against his smooth belly; they 
both laughed.

When she had pulled his briefs down far enough for 
him to slip out of them she stared up at what 
looked like a great rod above her. From below it 
seemed huge, although it was just an average six or 
seven inches, neither thick nor thin, but still... 
adorable! 

'God, it's so hard, Charlie!' she whispered. 
'Doesn't it hurt? It looks really painful.' And she 
pulled it down from its near-vertical position 
until the dribbling tip was level with her mouth.

'It feels like it's alight!' he winced, watching 
her every move. 

'Then I'll have to cool it down for you,' she 
laughed. And she eased the tight, pink foreskin 
back over the head, releasing a faint scent of 
vinegary sweat, musk, saltiness... and raw sex. 
Charlie had skipped breakfast that morning so he 
could be alone in the shower while the others were 
in the refectory, and had treated himself to a 
long, luxurious, soapy wank that had left him 
scrubbed and fragrant (and just as horny as before) 
- such are the convoluted situations that boys at 
boarding school have to engineer for themselves. 
Once the head was free of its moist covering it 
immediately swelled, throbbed crimson; it looked 
like a ripe cherry. 'So that's why they call it 
"losing your cherry",' she thought. She kissed the 
tip, licked drops of salty fluid from the slit, 
making him gasp. 

'Jesus, Sophie, you're...'

Gingerly, holding her breath, she drew him into her 
mouth until the head of his cock touched her throat 
and made her gag. She quickly moved it back and 
began to lick, suck, twirl her tongue along his 
shaft, flicking the tip under the base of the head, 
while all the time Charlie was moaning, rocking 
back and forth, stroking her hair. As she glanced 
up she dribbled slightly and made a slurping sound; 
this seemed to excite him, and his cock twitched 
against the inside of her cheek. 

'Oh God, Sophe,' he mumbled, 'you're incredible...'

Taking him out of her mouth, she licked her way 
down his shaft, burying her nose in his dark, downy 
pubic hair, - he had no other hair on his body 
except for tufts under his arms - and noticed the 
characteristic smell of his balls, not so much 
sweat as a slightly aromatic, dry odour, clean and 
unbelievably delicious. As she kissed and tickled 
them with her tongue he gasped and thrust forward; 
she quickly pulled a pubic hair off her moist lips, 
hoping he hadn't noticed, somehow it seemed silly, 
even dirty.

After a few minutes she looked up again, smiled, 
then lay back on the bed, her eyes telling him (as 
if he needed telling) what to do next. She opened 
her legs, and he knelt between them, hands 
trembling as he rested them on her knees, stroked 
the inside of her warm thighs. By now his cock 
seemed to have grown, its shiny crimson head 
pointing straight up.

'Come on Charlie,' she whispered, 'let's do it, 
let's do it now, God, I love you so much.' 

Lips parted in concentration and blushing deeply, 
Charlie eased forward, his arms braced either side 
of her, and lowered himself, his eyes gazing into 
hers. He bit his lip, a bashful little quirk that 
drove her wild. 

'Shouldn't we...?' he said, 'I mean, I haven't got 
any... you know...'

'What? What haven't you got, Charlie?' Sophie was 
beginning to pant. 

He blushed scarlet. 'You know... johnnies... 
condoms... I mean, I... we don't want to...'

'Jesus Christ, Charlie,' said Sophie, unable to 
contain herself, 'I can't wait for you to go to the 
chemist! I want you inside me now, let's just do 
it, please Charlie, I really want you!'

That settled it - as if there were ever any choice. 
He winced as she moved his cock down from its rigid 
position parallel with their bodies, and rested the 
head against the lips of her sex, which were now 
parting and glowing even more than before. 

'God, I love you,' he sighed; and slowly, shyly, 
hesitantly, he eased himself into her. Their 
blushing sexes met. 

They both gasped. What an incredible sensation! The 
heat, the silky, slithering softness! Once his cock 
was all the way in he paused, grinning, and looked 
deep into her eyes. 

'Yeah,' he whispered, as much aroused by what he 
was saying as by the act itself. 'Let's do it. 
Let's fuck...'

Sophie giggled, bit his neck. Charlie began to 
thrust in and out, arms braced either side of her, 
gasping, sweat trickling from under his arms. 

'Not so fast,' she said. 'Take it slowly, Charlie, 
there's no rush, I want this to last forever, 
you're so gorgeous, so hot, so...'

Between gazing into her grey eyes, slipping his 
tongue into her soft, eager mouth and nibbling at 
her ear, Charlie kept glancing down, fascinated by 
the sight of his glistening pink shaft gliding in 
and out of her dribbling sex. Seeing it pulse made 
him even harder, he could feel the narrow walls of 
her vagina gripping his cock, massaging it, 
stimulating every nerve ending. Sophie, too, was 
awash with new sensations. With each of Charlie's 
backward strokes she felt his foreskin slip back 
over the head, while on his rhythmical inward 
thrusts she could distinctly feel the vein 
throbbing along the side as he glided down her 
passageway, his adorably tight foreskin retracting 
again, bunching into a ridge that made her whole 
body shudder before it was pulled all the way back. 

Then the process repeated, on and on, world without 
end... they were breathing heavily, moaning, sweat 
trickled down their backs, formed beads on their 
foreheads, shoulders and thighs, sunlight poured 
into the room, now filled with the smell of sex, 
they breathed it and themselves in, she scratched 
his back, bit his neck, he chewed her ear lobes... 
it was wonderful. 

Beneath them the sheets were getting damp and 
sticky, and soon they began to make a slight 
squelching sound; it was hardly romantic, but in 
their ingˇnue ardour they found it thrilling; they 
giggled and fucked harder and harder, their now 
glistening tummies sticking together as their sexes 
met then moved apart, leaving quickly-fading 
imprints on each other.   

Occasionally Charlie paused for a moment. 
Inexperienced though he was, he wasn't sure when he 
was going to come and didn't want it to happen too 
soon (he'd read in magazines how this frustrated 
girls, although the magazines gave little advice 
about how to solve the problem except offering to 
sell you 'stud cream,' which he would have been too 
embarrassed, or proud, to use), and so he made 
these rather obvious efforts to pace himself, 
kissing and fondling Sophie in the intervals. 

She knew instinctively what he was doing and adored 
him even more for it: 'He's thinking of me, not 
just his own pleasure,' she told herself. But when 
he began thrusting into her again, his hot balls 
slapping against the smooth area between her pussy 
and her bottom, she suddenly remembered a 
conversation that she had overheard at school, 
between some of the more streetwise girls. One of 
them, who had supposedly had a brief affair with an 
older man, was telling the others that boys really 
loved it if you slid your finger up their bum while 
you were fucking. Apparently it drove them wild. 
Should I, she wondered? I mean, will Charlie like 
it, or will he think I'm perverted, a dirty little 
slut? 

Nonetheless she decided to risk it. The mere 
thought of being inside his adorable bottom set her 
whole body aquiver. Turning it into a game, she 
rested her index finger against his lips and coaxed 
him into sucking it for a while. Charlie innocently 
went along with the ploy, treating it like a nipple 
and immediately starting to lick her breasts once 
she had taken it out. Putting her arms round him, 
crossing her legs over the back of his thighs, she 
teased her way down his back with her moist finger, 
gradually inching between his buttocks until she 
found the small, quivering, secret opening. Soon 
her fingertip was toying with the lips of his anus, 
teasing the thousands of nerve endings.

'Jesus, Sophie!'

'Sorry, am I hurting you, I'll stop if...'

'No no no, don't stop, go on, it's fantastic, do it 
some more, please...' he moaned, sweat glowing on 
his face, his toes curling and hot flushes 
colouring the cheeks of his backside. She took him 
at his word, slipped her finger into his hot, tight 
passage. Soon she was moving it in and out, 
fingering him long and hard.

'Aagh, ooh, Jesus Christ!,' he gasped, 'I'm going 
to come, Sophe!' But she knew this already: the 
muscles of his excited little anus were clenching 
at her finger like teeth. 

'I've got to pull out,' he said, breathlessly, 'I 
can't... we can't... Sophie...'

But Sophie held him tight, kept her finger where it 
was and crossed her legs over his toiling back.

'Go on, Charlie,' she whispered, 'come inside me, I 
want you to, let it go, I love you, do it, do it, 
do it now...'

Charlie looked her in the eye, blushed, grinned, 
bit his lip. For a second or two he carried on 
thrusting slowly, almost pulling out completely on 
the backward stroke, but he couldn't control the 
pace any longer and speeded up, their bellies 
slapped together noisily, the sunlight lit up their 
hair like halos, they were gasping, sweating, 
oozing, trickling, kissing, licking, biting for all 
they were worth.

'Oh my God!' he gasped, and with three, four, five, 
six, seven short thrusts he came in a great 
torrent, his whole body shuddered, again Sophie 
felt the muscles in his bottom close tightly round 
her finger, a scent of sweet, salty musk engulfed 
them, she felt his lightning-hot semen shooting 
into her in uncontrollable, adorable spurts...

...and then it was over, they were lying in each 
other's arms in the damp patch, sticky with sweat, 
saliva and cum. He gave one final, loving squirt 
and then collapsed, his breath coming in gasps. For 
a while his cock remained hard inside her, 
twitching, and then it softened and went limp... 
all passion spent.

Yet not quite. It was the moment for those sincere 
but often gauche declarations which, suddenly 
released by such moments of youthful intimacy, 
young lovers feel obliged to make after their first 
time making love. They kissed over and over again, 
but only on the lips, as if they were in a public 
place and wanted to proclaim their love to everyone 
around them. 

'I love the way you close your eyes when you come, 
Charlie,' she said. 'It's as if you're dreaming, or 
drifting away into another world... it's so 
romantic.' 

He smiled, kissed her breasts, traced his 
fingertips through her still-moist pubic hair, ran 
them over his own lips then hers. Yes, I'm a 
romantic, he was thinking, I'm not like other boys, 
I know how to love a girl... truly, madly, deeply. 

'I love...' he began, then blushed. 'I love the way 
you... you know... with your finger....' More 
blushes. 'I mean, how did you guess that I...?'

Sophie chuckled. 'Girl talk,' she said. 'We know 
more about boys' bodies than you realize.' 

'I'm glad,' he grinned. 'I thought maybe they 
taught you how to do it in biology.' 

And, laughing, they lay in silence for a while, 
embracing, kissing each other's hands and hair. 

Suddenly he sat up. 'I need to pee,' he said, 
rather sheepishly.

'It's just down on the left,' Sophie smiled, like a 
mother or an elder sister. The banalities of sex 
were so thrilling! She watched him walk across the 
room, gazed at his long, slim legs, his agile feet, 
- they were quite small and cute, rather like a 
girl's - and that wonderful, wonderful bottom, saw 
how the pink cheeks parted slightly and opened out 
at the base like a smile, beyond which lay the 
soft, sensitive entrance that she had explored with 
her finger. God, he was so lovely! She noticed some 
scratches on his back, and realized that in her 
frantic excitement she had put them there. When he 
got to the door he glanced back, as if sensing her 
eyes on him, and gave a bashful grin. 

As he made his way to the bathroom he gloried in 
his nudity, thrilled at the way his half-erect, 
heavy sex swung rhythmically as he moved, the 
cherry-red head balancing back and forth. He was 
filled with the glorious, romantic sensuality of 
sex, its scents and sensations swirled around him, 
rising off his body like mist.

Once he had had a piss, - and noticed a bottle of 
Sophie's perfume on the shelf, resolving to buy her 
some for her birthday (but when is it? I have to 
ask her, I'll do it when I get back to bed... God 
yes, she's lying there waiting for me) - he put his 
cock under the hot tap and bathed it, caressed his 
foreskin to and fro. By the time he got back to 
Sophie he was erect again, hovering tantalizingly 
in a near-vertical position.

'Come on,' she laughed. 'Back to bed with you, 
quick, quick, I'm getting cold on my own... mmm,' 
she mumbled, burying her face in his unruly hair 
and stroking his sex as they embraced, 'it's all 
warm and soapy, have you been massaging it for me?' 
And she coaxed him into a sitting position astride 
her, where he thrust gently back and forth between 
her breasts until a great pearly stream cascaded 
into a necklace round her milky-white throat, then 
jetted onto the headboard and trickled down in 
rivulets like summer rain. She looked at the 
droplets on her breasts, plucked some with her 
finger and ran it over her lips, licked it, then 
sat up and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his 
mouth. 

Then they discovered soixante-neuf, a position they 
were convinced that they had just invented. As 
Charlie's tongue burrowed into her now familiar 
pinkness, his more experienced finger stroking her 
clitoris and making her squirm, she sucked him 
gently before lowering her head between his drawn-
up legs, their muscles twitching excitedly, and 
licked her way from his balls, along the soft, 
smooth trail that led to his hot little anus. 

As her hair brushed his thighs he shuddered, then 
began to wriggle and moan as he felt her tongue 
slip inside him, while with her other hand she 
stroked his cock until she felt semen spurt high 
into the air between her coaxing fingers, trickling 
down the back of her hand and wrist. 'Sophe, Sophe, 
Sophie,' he moaned, thrusting his tongue deeper and 
deeper into her until his lips, nose and chin were 
glistening with her own orgasm. 

Afterwards they rested, her head on his chest. From 
the boarding house next door came loud music. 
'Wish... wish you were here,' sang the well-known 
voice. Charlie laughed: 'Yeah, I bet a lot of them 
wish they were here, in my place. You're fantastic, 
Sophe, I love you so much.' 

She smiled, kissed his nipple. But at the same time 
she felt an odd foreboding; it was all too perfect. 

For a while they dozed off; it was still quite 
early, her parents weren't due back till late, 
maybe not until well after supper. Sophie was the 
first to wake. Carefully getting up, she crept down 
to the bottom of the bed and began to lick and 
tickle Charlie's feet, running her tongue between 
his toes: there wasn't a single part of his body 
that she didn't want to put in her mouth, to 
inhale, touch, feel, absorb. He giggled in his 
sleep, then woke up and stared at her in startled 
delight. Yes, it was all so perfect.

They made love again, exactly like the first time, 
an act that now seemed familiar although no less 
thrilling, every little gesture imbued with 
significance, a ritual that they had to repeat 
flawlessly and step by step, or else it would 
somehow be meaningless. Yet unbeknown to them, not 
far away, fate was playing its part, arranging 
things according to its own particular schema, as 
it is wont to do. 

Lost in their mirage of blissful abandon, the two 
young lovers were unaware that Sophie's father had 
suddenly remembered that he had to write some 
letters that evening, and had got a lift back from 
the away match with another member of staff, 
leaving his wife and younger daughter to drive home 
on their own later. He had just arrived. First he 
looked into the boarding house to check on the 
boys, and then decided to get himself a drink 
before going to his study to work. 

When he opened the front door the place seemed 
unusually quiet, and yet he sensed an... 
atmosphere. Then he heard a noise from upstairs (it 
was Sophie's bed creaking), what might be music or 
voices, and thought that he would just pop up and 
look in on Sophie, who was probably revising. As Dr 
Buckler got to the top of the stairs and walked 
down the corridor, Charlie was about to have his 
third orgasm of the afternoon (and the fourth of 
the day, counting his wank in the shower that 
morning): there was no going back. 

The closer that Sophie's father got to his 
daughter's room, the more suspicious he became. The 
noise was getting louder, faster, it sounded like 
bedsprings creaking frantically. He was a 
housemaster of many years' standing; half his life 
had been spent looking after adolescents, so he was 
far from na•ve. And by now he could hear gasps, 
muffled voices. When he got to the door he stopped 
and listened.

'Oh, Sophie,' Charlie whispered, 'Sophe, Sophe, I 
love you so much, I'm going to come, oh God...'

'I love you too, Charlie...' Her voice trailed off 
into a sigh of ecstasy. 

Charlie managed one last, gentle stroke then lost 
control. His thrusts got faster and faster, he 
closed his eyes, bit his lip, his heart was 
pounding, both their bodies glistening. His cock 
twitched, pulsed, he began to come.

Just at that moment, Sophie's father tapped on the 
door then opened it, as he usually did. Immediately 
he was met with a slightly sickly atmosphere of 
suint and adolescent ardour, the lingering smell of 
sex that seemed to hover in the air, envelop him, 
wraps its blissful arms around him as well. Ah, 
sweet unconsciousness! The first thing he saw was 
the bed, its covers scattered, and then his 
daughter lying on her back on it, naked, her face 
momentarily hidden by another body that lay between 
her legs, a round, boyish bottom moving 
rhythmically, urgently up and down.

'Sophie!' he burst out. 'Sophie! What on earth...?'

Up till that point, Sophie hadn't seen or heard her 
father; she was too intent on kissing Charlie, 
scratching his back, fingering his bottom, biting 
his neck and waiting for him to explode inside her 
again, so hot, so sweet, so wonderful. But then the 
angry voice forced its way into her consciousness 
and her whole body froze. Over Charlie's heaving 
shoulder she saw her father in the doorway, his 
face like thunder.

'Oh my God!' she screamed. 'Stop, Charlie, stop, 
get off...' But before pushing him away he held him 
even tighter. 

For a split second Charlie thought that he was 
hurting her, that something was wrong, but then he 
saw her terrified gaze staring past him and across 
the room; he glanced over his shoulder. But it was 
too late, he had already started to come inside her 
in great, frantic thrusts. At the sight of Dr 
Buckler he was seized with panic and immediately 
pulled out, trembling, sat up, his flushed face 
turning bright scarlet. 

As he got up a jet of semen shot across Sophie's 
breasts, and as he turned round another, even more 
powerful white stream flew across the room and 
spattered onto the carpet at Sophie's father's 
feet, just missing his shoes. Before he could cover 
his red, throbbing sex with his hands he had come 
over the sheets and his own thighs as well. In less 
dramatic circumstances he might have laughed...  

'Charlie!' roared Dr Buckler. 'What the hell do you 
think you're doing! Get out of here at once. Get 
dressed, go on, get out, get out, get out this 
instant!' 

In a flash the terrified boy was scrabbling around 
on the floor, his still livid erection swinging 
like an accusing finger between his moist thighs, 
frantically trying to gather up his scattered 
clothes, dropping them, picking them up again, 
stumbling over the furniture, red as a beetroot, 
the sweat of lust on his face and back cooling 
rapidly into that of fear.

'Out!' shouted Sophie's father. 'Get your clothes 
on boy, no, not here, out in the corridor for God's 
sake, then go and wait for me downstairs!' 

In shame and dread, Charlie rushed out of the room 
carrying his bundle of clothes; the door slammed 
behind him, his beloved was lost. He fled to the 
bathroom, and as he struggled to get dressed, 
trembling, hair standing on end, hopping from one 
foot to another, he could hear Sophie's father 
berating her. Once he was in a vague semblance of 
order he hurried downstairs and waited in the hall, 
shaking all over, icy sweat trickling from his 
armpits. Soon the shouting stopped and he heard Dr 
Buckler's footstep thudding along the upstairs 
corridor.

'Wait here boy!' he snapped as he came down the 
stairs. He disappeared into another part of the 
house, a door opened then closed, leaving Charlie 
in a state of shock in the hall. He straightened 
his hair, tie and waistcoat in the large gilt 
mirror. After what seemed like an eternity, Dr 
Buckler reappeared.

'Right, young man. I've just spoken to your 
housemaster, and he's expecting you back at your 
house this instant. I've also spoken to the 
Headmaster, and you're to report to his study at 
eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. You can expect a 
pretty uncomfortable interview.' 

'I'm sorry sir, I... I...'

'Be quiet! I'm not interested in your excuses, save 
them for the Headmaster. Right, off you go.'  And 
he showed Charlie out of the front door.

When he got back to his boarding house, Charlie was 
met by the housemaster, who took him straight to 
his study. It wasn't a pleasant conversation for 
either of them, particular since his housemaster 
was fond of the shy, clever, capable boy who he was 
sure would get a place at Oxford. He told him that 
he was gated for a week, and confirmed that he was 
to see the Headmaster the next morning:

'Don't report to the secretary's office,' he told 
him, 'go to the side door at the far end of the 
private corridor that leads off the Great Hall. 
Knock on the door. And don't be late. You 
disappoint me, young man, but I suppose that's 
life.' 

Charlie couldn't get to sleep that night. His mind, 
his senses were in a whirl. First he wanted to get 
drunk, then have a cigarette, then wank, then fuck 
- but none of these were options. He was desperate 
to talk to someone about what had happened: in 
normal circumstances he would have told his best 
friend, Adam Harcourt, about having sex with Sophie 
Buckler, she was much admired by the entire sixth 
form, who would all be insanely jealous. But he 
knew it was impossible. So, after watching TV and 
trying to chat normally for a while, he went up to 
his room. He tried to take his mind off things by 
getting on with some Latin and Greek, but with no 
success. 

He desperately wanted to be with Sophie, to hold 
her, kiss her, - his whole body still smelt of her 
- but the thought that he might have got her into 
trouble (in more ways than one) left him utterly 
desolate. He knew he was in deep shit. Any form of 
sexual activity was completely forbidden at the 
school, and being caught with a member of staff's 
daughter made it a million times worse. He daren't 
think what his punishment would be. He tossed and 
turned in bed, felt ashamed whenever he sniffed his 
fingers and got a now painful erection; only in the 
early hours of the morning did he finally fall into 
a fitful sleep; but there was no going back.  

*

Monday morning

He woke earlier than usual, long before the house 
tutor came round, although sixth formers were 
expected to get themselves up. His usual morning 
erection only served to remind him of the trouble 
he was in; instead of wanking he took a cold shower 
rather than a hot one. Before the fateful encounter 
with the Headmaster he had double English, then 
private study until lunchtime - these last two 
periods would be taken up with what promised to be 
an awkward interview. 

He put on a clean shirt, underwear and socks, 
polished his shoes, tidied his unruly hair and gave 
his jacket a brush. Despite being hungry, breakfast 
made him feel slightly sick, and he realized that 
what he hungered for more than anything was 
Sophie... But that was just a dream now.

At five to eleven he walked down the Headmaster's 
echoing, private corridor, heat pounding, beginning 
to sweat. He waited outside the door for a moment, 
then as the clock on the bell tower struck eleven 
he knocked as firmly as he dared. To his surprise 
it was his housemaster who opened it.

'Come in,' he said. As Charlie walked into the 
large, airy, book-lined room that always smelt of 
leather, ink and authority he saw to his alarm that 
Dr Buckler was sitting to the right of the large 
oak desk, behind which sat the Headmaster. 

'Fuck,' he thought, 'they're all here. It's like a 
firing squad. I've got no chance.' 

'Come in, Millais,' said the Headmaster. Charlie 
knew immediately that things were looking serious. 
The Headmaster always called sixth formers by their 
first names; to be referred to by his surname sent 
a shudder down his spine. His housemaster sat down 
on the Headmaster's left.

'Well?' asked the Headmaster. 'What have you got to 
say for yourself?'

Charlie hung his head. 'I'm very sorry sir. It 
won't happen again.' 

Silence.

'Sorry for your behaviour, or sorry that you were 
caught?' asked the Headmaster, who was well known 
for his puritanical views on sex and relationships. 
But it was only a rhetorical question. 'I'm afraid 
sorry isn't good enough, Millais. You've behaved 
appallingly. You've dishonoured a girl, the 
daughter of a member of staff, in a school boarding 
house during term time, and brought shame on her 
and yourself. It's disgraceful!' 

'Yes sir.' 

'To make matters worse, you might have got the 
girl... into trouble.' The prudish man seemed to 
baulk at the word 'pregnant.' 'I understand you 
didn't use any form of protection?'

Charlie just looked at him blankly. What was he 
talking about?

'Contraception, boy. A condom.' 

Charlie blushed to the roots of his hair and looked 
down at his feet. Cold sweat trickled from his 
armpit.

'No sir.' 

'So you were thinking purely of your own pleasure.' 

'No sir,' Charlie protested, 'it wasn't like that. 
It was...' He wanted to say that Sophie had wanted 
it as much as he had, that it was actually her who 
had made the first move, that it was love, that it 
was beautiful, fine, noble... but he didn't dare. 
Even in his state of terror he knew that trying to 
share the blame with her would only make matters 
worse. What had one of his tutors, a rather old-
fashioned but delightful man once told him? 
'Nothing is ever a lady's fault.' It was the sort 
of adage that the Head Man would agree with. 

'So what was it like, Millais? No, don't answer 
that. The fact of the matter is that it warrants 
expulsion.' 

Charlie swallowed hard. What was it like, he 
thought? Less than twenty-four hours ago I was in 
bed with a beautiful girl, and now I'm standing 
here, being treated as if I murdered her.

'Which, considering that you've never been in any 
serious trouble before,' the Headmaster continued, 
'is a great shame. Your academic work is excellent, 
you're expected to get top grades at 'A' level, 
pass the Oxbridge exam in the Michaelmas term and 
get a place to read Classics at Oxford. Plus the 
fact that you're in the second eight, play fives 
and fence for your house, that you're a house 
prefect who sets a good example to the younger 
boys, and that all your tutors and your housemaster 
speak highly of you, hm? To be expelled at this 
stage would be tragic, don't you agree?' 

Charlie nodded, reddening. 'Yes sir.' 

'Which is why I'm not going to expel you, or even 
suspend you. To do so would destroy your chances, 
undo all the hard work that you've done so far.'

For a moment Charlie began to feel relieved, but a 
glance at Dr Buckler's and his housemaster's faces 
told him that he had no reason to be optimistic. 

'Expelling you would also draw attention to your 
crime, and besmirch Miss Buckler's honour even more 
by the rumours that would inevitably go round. 
There is also, of course, the question of whether 
Miss Buckler is... with child.' Charlie almost 
smirked at the ridiculous phrase, but thought 
better of it. 'If she is,' the Headmaster 
continued, 'then we'll have to review the matter of 
your place here.' 

Silence.

'In the meantime, the fact remains that you have 
committed the gravest misdemeanour, Millais. You 
have flouted school rules in the most outrageous 
fashion. I realize that you are both over the age 
of consent - you're almost eighteen, aren't you?'

Charlie nodded. 'In two weeks' time, sir.' 
 
'So in the eyes of the law you've done nothing 
wrong,' intoned the Headmaster, peering at him over 
his glasses. 'As far as the school and Dr and Mrs 
Buckler are concerned, however, your behaviour is 
totally unacceptable, quite beyond the pale. So you 
deserve to be punished extremely severely.' 

Charlie began to tremble. His stomach knotted. This 
is it then, he thought. There was little doubt what 
was coming.

The Headmaster looked him in the eye. 'So I'm going 
to beat you, Millais. Frankly you deserve a good 
thrashing, so that's what you'll get: twelve 
strokes of the cane.' 

Charlie felt the colour drain from his face. His 
stomach churned, his tight little anus puckered 
frantically open and shut, beads of sweat formed on 
his forehead. Twelve, he thought. Jesus! It was a 
hell of a lot, he wasn't sure he could take it - 
not that he had any choice. Seven was the school 
norm for serious offences ('go one better than six 
of the best' was the unofficial maxim), although 
despite popular rumours, canings were few and far 
between nowadays. He had never been beaten, and 
only knew three or four boys who had, usually for 
the most terrible crimes like stealing, taking 
drugs or hitting a master. 

'Sir.' He hung his head again. 

'Take your jacket off and leave it on the chair 
there,' said the Headmaster. Charlie quickly did as 
he was told, and then stood in front of the desk 
again, too afraid to say anything or make another 
move. Dr Buckler went to the corner, took a three-
foot long, whippy rattan cane from an umbrella 
stand hidden behind a bookcase, and handed it to 
the Headmaster. Charlie stared at it and shuddered. 

'Since you're so fond of the pleasures of the 
flesh,' said the Headmaster, a sour expression on 
his face as if the word 'flesh' left an unpleasant 
taste in his mouth, 'it's your flesh that will have 
to suffer the consequences. Go and bend over the 
horse in the corner there - and take your trousers 
and pants down.' 

Charlie went rigid with fright. He couldn't believe 
his ears. He was going to be caned on his bare 
backside like a naughty prep school boy! He blushed 
scarlet, shuddered, then turned white as a sheet. 
For a moment he thought he was going to be sick, or 
wet himself. The shame of it! 

'But sir...'

'No buts, Millais, or you'll get an extra stroke. 
Go on.' 

As he walked across the room, Charlie felt his legs 
turning to jelly. He was shaking all over. He 
stared at the notorious vaulting horse that stood 
in the far corner, facing a row of bookshelves, and 
which was usually kept out of sight in a cupboard. 
Once it was no longer fit for use in the gymnasium, 
some twisted individual in the school workshops had 
had the bright idea of converting it to its 
present, sinister purpose. The legs had been 
shortened so boys could bend right over it with 
their backside sticking in the air, the leather 
repaired, the vaulting handles removed from the top 
and a horizontal brass rail fitted to the far side 
for the hapless victim to grip onto. His mouth was 
dry, his back soaked in sweat. He glanced at the 
books on the shelves: one of them was 'Paradise 
Lost.' 

He started to undo his belt, but his hands were 
shaking so much that he couldn't do it. Eventually 
he managed, and then had to struggle with the 
button, the zip, which stuck. After what seemed 
like an eternity he pulled his trousers down; they 
slipped from his grasp, slid down his long legs and 
landed in a heap round his ankles. The belt buckle 
clunked ominously on the floor. 

'Hurry up, boy!' came the Headmaster's voice from 
across the room behind him. 'Pants as well.'

Charlie gulped. He felt utterly humiliated - but 
that was all part of the punishment. It was exactly 
what this awful ritual, the waiting, the lecture, 
the sight of the cane were designed to produce. 
Hands trembling, he eased his briefs down his 
thighs. They were identical to the pair he had worn 
yesterday, which Sophie had found so arousing; the 
fact wasn't lost on him.

'Right, over you go,' came the voice.

Charlie bent over the horse, glanced down as he 
felt his cock and balls squashing against the 
leather, his pubic hair tugging. He shuddered: it 
was almost a turn-on. I'm going to throw up, he 
thought. Or faint. My arse is going to be cut to 
shreds. Oh, Sophie! He tried to console himself 
with the fact that this was all for her.

'Pull your shirt tail up, tuck it in your 
waistcoat!'

Quickly he did as he was told, then gripped onto 
the brass bar, which he noticed had recently been 
polished. And waited.

'Legs apart slightly!'

Charlie moved his trembling legs. This is it, he 
thought. Any second now. 

His housemaster looked on, disconsolate yet 
fascinated. Charlie Millais was a nice boy, this 
was a shame. Wasn't the Headmaster being a touch 
severe? But rules were rules. Dr Buckler stared at 
the pale, round, attractive bottom and justified 
himself for supporting the Headmaster's decision to 
beat Charlie with the fact that the last time he 
had seen these buttocks they had been quivering 
with pleasure between his daughter's legs. Now they 
were trembling with terror. And soon they would be 
bright red with agony, not lust. 

There was a pause. Silence. Charlie wanted to 
glance back, but daren't. Then he heard footsteps 
coming towards him, cloth rustling, felt a slight 
breeze, glimpsed a shadowy figure out of the corner 
of his eye, sensed the vague presence of a hard 
object hovering near his naked backside.

'Fucking hell!' he thought. 'The bastard's taking 
aim!'

The Headmaster used the cane very rarely, but when 
he did he was famed for his deadly accuracy. 
Charlie had seen the buttocks of someone who had 
suffered the same punishment as he was about to 
receive. 

Silence. Charlie closed his eyes, held on tightly 
to the rail. He was mortified. His bare arse was in 
full view of these three masters, he felt only an 
inch high. 'I'm almost an adult,' he thought; 'and 
a prefect, an Oxbridge candidate - and now this!' 
He bit his lip then ran his tongue over it. 

Silence. And then: 'Swooosh... Whack!'

'Agh!' Winded by the unexpected force of the first 
stroke, Charlie let out a horrified gasp. It felt 
as if a red-hot rapier had cut into his buttocks. 
The pain was agonizing, but almost immediately it 
faded. Charlie was just telling himself that maybe 
it wasn't going to be too bad after all when the 
pain suddenly returned, and began to burn and sting 
horribly.

This is the subtle horror of a rattan cane, the 
reason why it was used. When the blow lands, the 
initial pain is followed by a brief numbness. But 
then comes the rising tide of agony that gets worse 
with each new stroke. Experienced Headmasters know 
this, and pause for about ten seconds between 
strokes so that the next blow lands just as the 
previous one is causing the worst pain. It is all 
part of the ritual, the psychological as well as 
physical torture. 

'Swooosh... whack!' The second stroke landed like a 
razor blade.
	
'Aaagh!' Charlie cried out louder. Any thoughts of 
gritting his teeth, playing the hero, the star-
crossed lover, were gone. He was terrified, 
ashamed, trembling openly, sweating; all he wanted 
was for it to be over, to be away from this awful 
room and its sadistic occupants. He desperately 
wanted to beg the Headmaster to stop, that he was 
truly sorry, that he'd do anything to prove how 
sorry he was if only he wasn't caned... but he knew 
that this was impossible, that it would only add to 
his humiliation.

'Swoosh... whack!'

Stroke number three. Charlie's cry of pain got even 
louder. His knuckles whitened on the rail. 

The two housemasters watched as livid weals began 
appearing on the naked flesh. An expert in the art, 
the Headmaster could land six or seven strokes in 
different places, never touching the same spot 
twice. But with twelve strokes this would be 
impossible. A boy's bottom, even that of an 
adolescent of Charlie's age, is quite a small 
target. It was inevitable that some strokes would 
land on top of the previous ones; the pain would be 
excruciating.

With the fourth stroke Charlie gave a yell, his 
eyes began to water, his nose was running but he 
daren't wipe it. He wanted to stand up, but knew 
that that would incur extra punishment. By the 
fifth stroke he was crying softly; by the sixth he 
was sobbing audibly, his tears dripping onto the 
floor. The seventh stroke fell on top of the first, 
and he screamed: it felt as if his backside was on 
fire, his legs began to twitch back and forth as if 
trying to shake off the pain.

'Keep still boy!' growled the Headmaster, who was 
standing close enough to smell the sweat of fear 
that was running down Charlie's back and trickling 
between his buttocks. 'Or you'll get more.' 

But Charlie found it impossible to keep completely 
still. His limbs seemed to be quivering of their 
own accord, a form of nervous spasm. He was 
beginning to feel faint, he was out of breath, 
dripping sweat, the only thing that kept him from 
collapsing or passing out was the sound of his own 
screams. His whole body was shaking, he tossed his 
head from side to side. 

Eight... nine... ten. The pain, the hellish fire, 
grew worse and worse. It was if he were being 
sliced in half. He had never imagined that anything 
could be so painful, so cruel, so utterly 
degrading. He hung his head and wept.

'Swoosh...whack!' Eleven.

'Just one to go,' thought Charlie - as much as he 
was capable of thinking. 'Or was that the tenth? Or 
the twelfth?' He daren't ask, daren't look back. 
'The Head Man's arm must be aching by now, the 
fucking bastard, maybe the last one won't be so 
hard.' 

Pain.

'Swoosh... crack!' But when the twelfth and final 
stroke came, it was the hardest, most vicious of 
all, so much so that Charlie was completely winded 
and almost collapsed. It was as if the Headmaster 
had saved his strength for the last blow. 

Silence. Sobbing. 

'Right, up you get Millais. Pull your trousers up 
and get dressed.' 

It was over. Yet to Charlie it was as if it were 
only just beginning. He could barely stand up from 
the horse, and when he bent down to pull his 
trousers up he almost fell over. As he eased his 
briefs over his blazing buttocks he gasped in agony 
- the elastic cut into the twelve red weals that 
were throbbing violently, now at the very apogee of 
pain. 

Hands shaking, sniffing, wiping his tears, he 
finally managed to do up his belt, then got his 
jacket from the chair and put it on. The three 
masters looked at him. The handsome, lively face 
was streaked with hot tears, the dark blue eyes 
devoid of their usual sparkle and now red and 
puffy, the fine lips trembling, the slender nose 
running. The due punishment had been carried out: 
Charlie Millais wouldn't forget it in a hurry.

'Let that be a lesson to you,' said the Headmaster. 
'I never want to have to deal with you over 
something of this kind ever again, do you hear?'

'Y-Yes sir,' stammered Charlie, between sobs. 

'Very well. Off you go. There's a cloakroom outside 
the door, wash your face and clean yourself up, 
then go back to your boarding house. You're excused 
the rest of morning school.' 

'Th-Thank you sir.' The fact that he had private 
study until lunchtime completely escaped Charlie. 
He was utterly abject. 

'Just one more thing before you go, Millais,' added 
the Headmaster, glancing round at his colleagues. 
'This is to go no further. It stays within these 
four walls. The only people in the school who know 
about your punishment - and what you did to earn it 
- are the four of us. If Dr Buckler's daughter's 
honour is not to be sullied any further, and 
protected from malicious gossip, then that is how 
it is to remain. Is that clear?'

'Yes sir.'  
	
'You aren't to talk about what you did, or your 
punishment, to anyone, - particularly not the other 
pupils - or to show them your backside, which I 
know is usually what boys do in such cases. If 
people know that you've been beaten they'll want to 
know why, it's not an everyday event. And once they 
know, that's where ugly rumours start. You're going 
to have to suffer in silence I'm afraid. Regard it 
as part of the lesson you have to learn.' 

'Yes sir.' 

'Right, off you go.'

The three men watched as Charlie hobbled out of the 
room, shaking with pain, anger and shame, trying to 
hold back his tears, to preserve at least a few 
shreds of dignity.

'We'll have to keep a lid on this business, 
Richard,' said the Headmaster, turning to Dr 
Buckler. 'Let me know the results of the pregnancy 
test as soon as you get them.' 

'Of course, Headmaster. My wife took Sophie to the 
doctor this morning.' 

The Headmaster turned to Charlie's housemaster. 
'And do please keep a close eye on young Millais, 
Clive,' he said. 'I don't want him doing anything 
foolish - or, not any more than he's done already.' 

'Absolutely,' said Charlie's housemaster. 'He's a 
decent boy, all this has shocked me deeply. But 
I'll keep a watch on him, obviously. I've gated him 
for a week, he can't get up to much in the school 
grounds without someone noticing. I can tell people 
it's for some minor misbehaviour, it happens all 
the time, no one will give it a second thought. I'm 
sure he'll soon get over it.' 

The Headmaster nodded. 

He'll soon get over it: nothing could have been 
further than the truth. 

When he got back to his house, having taken a 
roundabout route to avoid meeting anyone who might 
notice his puffy face and painful walk, he went 
straight to his room and studied his backside in 
the mirror. What he saw horrified him. Twelve angry 
red lines ran across his buttocks, some already 
purple from the bruising, a few still bleeding. He 
dabbed at them with wet toilet paper; too ashamed 
to ask the house matron for antiseptic cream, he 
had to make do with soap, which stung. Then he 
perched on the edge of his bed, lost in thought.

He desperately wanted to confide in someone, share 
his pain, but he was sworn to a silence which if 
broken would bring more punishment, even expulsion. 
And he wanted to see Sophie, hold her, and yes, 
make love to her, tell her what had happened, how 
sorry he was, how he wanted to make up for it, how 
much he loved her. But it was impossible. And now 
he had English, Latin and Greek to do, there was no 
let-up, even if he was allowed to tell his tutors 
that he had just got the cane it wouldn't be 
accepted as an excuse, far from it, although one or 
two of them - especially Mr. Prideaux - might cut 
him some slack. But no: he was on his own. Putting 
a pillow on the chair he sat at his desk and 
started revising the aorist. 

The rest of the day was spent trying not to attract 
attention to himself. Someone asked why he was 
limping: he told him he'd twisted his ankle on the 
stairs, but that it wasn't serious. Harder to 
conceal was his general, preoccupied unhappiness, 
which caused a few boys to speculate that he was 
'in love' and try to guess who the object of his 
yearnings might be. But as plenty of other sixth 
formers had similar mood-swings, people soon gave 
up and left him to his misery.

That night, after he had finished his prep and 
watched TV (standing up at the back of the room), 
he took a late shower in one of the cubicles 
reserved for senior boys, thus preventing anyone 
from noticing the tell-tale scars. Then he went to 
bed; luckily he always slept on his side, but 
whenever he turned over in his sleep he was woken 
by a painful spasm. At about three o'clock in the 
morning he drifted into a sort of semi-
consciousness and wanked feverishly until he 
dropped off again, his sheets, thighs and stomach 
sticky with cum. 

*

Tuesday night

The next morning he woke early and in pain. After 
an agonizing visit to the toilet, - the rough 
wooden seat opened one of his scar and made it 
bleed, and wiping his arse was virtually impossible 
without crying out in pain - he rushed to the 
shower to avoid being seen. His whole life had 
suddenly been transformed into a charade, a series 
of lies and half-truths: he ate breakfast perched 
on the end of a bench; his housemaster noticed, but 
instead of telling him to sit properly, he was 
sympathetic enough not to comment. The school day 
loomed, grey, grim and forbidding. 

When he came back to the house at morning break he 
found a letter in his pigeonhole. He didn't 
recognize the writing, but it looked female, and 
seemed to have been delivered by hand. But when, 
and by whom? His heart missed a beat: was it 
another summons! Was Sophie pregnant? He hardly 
dared open it. 

Inside the plain buff envelope was a page torn from 
an exercise book, folded in half. What was written 
on it was brief but thrilling:

'Meet me at the Lower School cricket pavilion at 
midnight tonight. I've got a key. Don't be late. S 
xxx'

Glancing round, he quickly stuffed it into his 
inside pocket and rain painfully upstairs to read 
it again and again and again. It had to be from 
Sophie! And he remembered that the spare key for 
the pavilion was kept at Lutyens, which was nearby.

He spent the rest of the day in a state of panic, 
and got lower than average marks in a Latin unseen, 
which Dr Buckler, his tutor, was quick to point 
out, saying with unconcealed relish that it fell 
far short of Oxbridge standards. Apart from that 
the subterfuge continued; he took a late shower 
again (the housemaster had suggested this and given 
him permission, so nothing would be said about him 
being up at that time), and then lay in bed in the 
dark, counting the minutes until it was time to go. 
One benefit of his injuries was that they prevented 
him from dozing off.

At quarter to midnight he got up, put on his jeans 
and reefer and crept down the service stairs into 
the cool night air. Keeping to the shadows, he made 
his way to the Lower School cricket pavilion, which 
was midway between his house and Lutyens.

The low wooden building was in darkness, its 
shutters closed. But as he crept up the veranda 
steps and gingerly opened the door, he saw a faint 
flicker of light inside. Sitting on a bench in the 
far corner was Sophie; she had brought a candle. 
The moment he appeared she leapt up, rushed over 
and locked the door behind him. Then she threw her 
arms round him. 

'Charlie! I've been out of my mind!' 

They kissed, held each other tight, ran their 
fingers through each other's hair. 

'I haven't stopped thinking about you, Sophe,' he 
mumbled, his face buried in her shoulder and wet 
with tears. Already their hands were slipping 
inside each other's clothes. 

'Ouch!' he gasped as she began to caress his 
bottom.

'Oh my darling,' she whispered, kissing him on the 
lips. 'Is it really painful? I heard what 
happened.' 

Charlie stiffened. How did she know he'd been 
caned? Had word got out, had the Headmaster or the 
others broken their word? He blushed, tried to hide 
his shame. 

'How did you find out? Who told you? No one's 
supposed to know.' 

'No one told me. I just guessed from something my 
Dad said when I asked what would happen to you. He 
said that he hoped you had plenty of cushions to 
sit on.' 

'What a bastard! Sorry Sophe, I didn't mean to...'

'No, you're right,' she said, moving back slightly, 
her eyes swimming. 'They're monsters to do that to 
you.' Then she gave a little smile, part sympathy 
part flirting. 'Can I... will you show me?'

Charlie stared at her. His groin began to stir. 
Then he grinned, and she saw some light come back 
into his eyes. The candlelight seemed to have a 
softening yet stimulating effect on him, giving him 
a taste for wild romance. Taking off his coat, he 
turned round and eased his jeans and briefs down, 
wincing.

Silence. 'My God Charlie!' she gasped when she saw 
his raw, wealed buttocks. 'What have they done to 
you? You've been bleeding, it looks like you were 
tortured! Did my Dad do this?'

'I think he'd have liked to. But no, the Head Man 
did it while your father and my housemaster 
watched. I got twelve strokes on my bare arse, it 
must have been quite a show. I'm afraid... I'm 
afraid I wasn't very brave, Sophe... I cried, 
actually.' And he hung his head. 

Sophie put her arms round him, kissed him over and 
over again. 'Twelve! My God, Charlie, who wouldn't 
have cried! And they made you take your trousers 
down, that's really horrible, really cruel, you're 
not a kid! You're a man, and I love you so much!' 

She gave another mischievous smile and went and got 
something from her coat pocket. 

'I brought this in case,' she grinned. Charlie's 
eyes widened. 'It's baby lotion, come on, I'll put 
some on for you, it'll soothe those awful scars. 
You don't mind do you? I mean...'

Mind? Charlie was ecstatic, if slightly 
embarrassed. He blushed scarlet and gave a little 
laugh. Then he kissed her, and for the second time 
that week he bent over and offered his naked 
backside to someone - only this time voluntarily.

'Ouch... aagh... mmmm,' he mumbled as she knelt 
down and rubbed the cool lotion into his smarting 
buttocks. 'Mmm, that's great, Sophe, further up... 
now... a bit lower down... yeah!' He squirmed with 
pain and pleasure as her fingers caressed him. 'Yes 
yes yes, do it some more...'

Sophie smiled, rubbed and massaged; and then, 
starting in the small of his back she kissed and 
stroked her way down between his buttocks until her 
lips and tongue were brushing his most intimate, 
sensitive spot, the same place that she had 
explored with her finger on that fateful Sunday 
afternoon. As she did so she reached between his 
legs and stroked his balls, eased his foreskin back 
and forth.

'Oh yeah, Sophe,' he moaned, 'that's fantastic, go 
on, don't stop...'

But she stood up, unbuttoned her blouse, and got 
him to turn round. His eyes widened as she guided 
his hand inside; she wasn't wearing a bra, her 
breasts gave off a faint, luminescent glow in the 
candlelight. Charlie leant forward and kissed them, 
tickled her nipples with the tip of his tongue as 
he had before.

Continuing to kiss him, to run her fingers through 
his hair, to nibble at his ear she pulled off his 
shirt and pullover, stroked her knuckles against 
the front of his briefs (he had pulled them up 
again). 'No, Sophe, no,' he whispered, 'we can't, 
not after... not after last time, you might... you 
know... what if you're pregnant, I'll... we'll...' 

With a grin she wriggled out of his arms and got 
something else from her coat pocket. She dangled a 
little sachet in front of his face. 

'I've thought of everything,' she whispered. 'I 
wasn't a girl guide for nothing you know.' 
      
It was a condom.

Charlie stared. 'Jesus Christ, Sophie! Where did 
you...'

Another mischievous smile. 'I stole it from one of 
the girls in my class. I think I told you about 
her, she had an affair with this older man, or so 
she says, she's always chasing after boys. She 
keeps condoms in her bag all the time - "Just in 
case," she says. So I helped myself to a few. So... 
we'll be okay... if... if you want to... oh, 
Charlie, I love you...'

'If you want to...' She didn't really need to ask. 

As slowly and tantalizingly as they could, they 
undressed each other, then stood kissing. They 
found an old tablecloth on a shelf, spread it on 
the wooden floor then scattered their clothes on it 
like cushions and sank to the ground. Sophie gasped 
as she felt his hair brushing against her knees, 
then downwards along her thighs, then his tongue 
and finger slipping gently inside her. 

Something seemed to have changed since Sunday; in a 
sense Charlie was more, not less diffident, as if 
the beating had made him more aware of the 
consequences of his actions; yet at the same time 
he was more confident, he wanted to give her as 
much pleasure as possible, he was holding back, 
thinking of her and not just his own desires. He 
was still a shy yet passionate boy, finding his 
way, but on the horizon, lost in the shifting mists 
of adolescence, were the first glimmers of what it 
means to be a man.  

His raw backside rather limited their movements, 
and for a while he lay with his head between her 
legs, licking gently, glancing up and grinning as 
he ruffled his hair. He would have liked her to get 
on top, but that would have to wait until his scars 
healed; so instead he sat astride her, his cock 
slipping back and forth between her breasts, Sophie 
leaning forward occasionally and licking the head. 
'Come on,' she said suddenly, sitting up, 'let's be 
bunnies.' And she got on all fours and wiggled her 
behind at him. 'It's my turn to have my bottom 
whacked... sorry, my darling, I didn't mean to 
tease, I know it's no joke.' 

And she tore open the sachet and took out the 
condom. It was bright pink, they both laughed. All 
of a sudden the misery, pain and loneliness seemed 
to recede into the darkness where it had come from, 
they were alive again, breathing the same air - at 
least for now. For a moment Charlie just stared at 
her, thrilled not only by this clandestine 
rendezvous, the renewed intimacy that he thought he 
had lost forever because of what the school 
regarded as his dishonourable behaviour, - but how 
could he ever dishonour Sophie? -  but also by the 
fact that all of it, even the positions that she 
chose for them to make love in, was done for his 
benefit. 
	
Almost spellbound, he let her take him into her 
mouth for a while, held his breath as she twirled 
her tongue round and round beneath the head of his 
cock, and then watched as she slowly unrolled the 
thin, pink latex along his throbbing shaft. The 
touch of it was as cool, as responsive as her 
fingers. Once the condom was on they stared at it 
for a moment, giggling at the incongruous little 
teat at the end. Sophie tapped it, made it wobble.

'There,' she smiled, 'no more babies.' 

'Don't joke about it, Sophe. If you're pregnant 
they'll burn me at the stake... sorry, that sounds 
selfish, what I mean is... I don't want to lose 
you...' And he held her in his arms.

'You won't lose me, Charlie. And anyway, my test 
results will be through any day now, but if I have 
my period in the meantime, and its about due, that 
means we're okay.' 

He smiled. She had said 'we' again. 

'Come on then,' she said, getting on all fours, 
'the night's not over yet.' 

Charlie knelt behind her, fumbling to find her 
silky, impatient sex in this new, unfamiliar 
position, then crouched down and flicked his tongue 
in and out, stroked her with his fingertips. Like 
most boys he found the idea of rear-end sex an 
enormous turn-on, although it meant he couldn't 
kiss her, look into her eyes as they made love. His 
cock was almost vertical, and he struggled to push 
it down into a horizontal position and ease it in. 
'Mmm,' he moaned, feeling the head slide into her 
warmth, past her welcoming, petal-like labia. But 
then it slipped out and sprang up again; they 
giggled as he gripped the shaft and guided it in 
for a second, then a third time. Soon they were 
settled, and he began to knead her breasts, kiss 
the nape of her neck and hair as he thrust gently 
back and forth.

'Oh God, Charlie,' she gasped, 'that's fantastic, 
you're adorable, keep doing it just like that...'

So they fucked, the candlelight throwing 
fantastical shadows of their bodies across the 
musty old pavilion, adding the smell of adolescent 
ardour, their inflamed, thrilling sexes, to those 
of linseed, dry wood and generations of schoolboy 
cricketers. Charlie was amazed at how sensitive the 
condom was, how it calmed him, the sex seemed to 
last for hours, much longer than their first time. 
This is love, he thought, we're making love, not 
just screwing, God I love you Sophie, I'll never 
let you go, no, not ever...

They came within moments of each other, and 
collapsed onto the hard floor, gasping, getting 
their breath back, kissing over and over again. 
After they had been lying quietly for a while she 
eased the warm, bulging condom off of him. Some cum 
trickled out onto her hand, she licked it off and 
ran her tongue over his lips. Then she laughed and 
swung the condom back and forth like a pendulum. 

'We'd better throw this in the bushes,' she 
laughed. 'Or the Lower School boys will find it and 
get ideas. What's the time?' 

Charlie peered at his watch, yawned. 'Nearly three 
o'clock. Jesus, I've got double Greek first two 
periods, there's a grammar test.' 

Reality loomed. 

'We'll have to leave by four,' she said. 'It'll 
start getting light soon after that. Oh Charlie, I 
love you.' 

'Let's meet here again,' he said.

Her eyes widened. 'You're mad... but yeah, why not. 
How about Thursday night... same time?'

Grins of wickedness.

'Okay,' he said. 'I'll have to be quicker with my 
prep, maybe take a nap after supper... and sit on a 
cushion...' he grinned.

They lay in each other's arms until almost four 
o'clock, then dressed quickly between kisses, 
tidied up the pavilion, got rid of the candle wax - 
this was all Sophie's doing, determined to keep 
their meeting place a secret. They embraced one 
last time.

'We'll have to leave separately,' she said. 'If 
we're so much as spotted together then... I hate to 
think. I'll lock the door behind us then make my 
way back, you hide in the bushes for a while, count 
to a hundred then go another way.'

'God, Sophe, you've got it all sussed.' 

'Of course,' she laughed. 'I've got to take care of 
my wounded soldier. It makes me so angry to think 
what they did to you, I look at my dad and I want 
to kill him.' 

Charlie stared at her. Then he cupped her face in 
his hands and kissed her on the lips, once, twice, 
a third time. 'I love you Sophie.'  

'I love you too. Don't worry, they won't get the 
better of us.' 

'It's us contra mundum now,' he mumbled. 

'No,' she said, 'we're not up against the whole 
world, just this little corner of it. Once we're at 
Oxford they won't be able to touch us.' 

Charlie didn't want to let her go; she was his 
permanent ambassador to wonderland, a weaver of 
spells. Her words echoed in his mind: 'They won't 
get the better of us... us...' As he huddled in the 
bushes and watched her hurry off along the edge of 
the playing fields, he felt as if he were floating 
off the ground. He saw her stop, toss something 
into the hedge (it was the condom)... and then she 
was gone. His eyes welled with tears. 

He counted to a hundred then made his way back to 
the boarding house. As he crept into his cold, 
lonely room the first tints of dawn were just 
beginning to colour the horizon. 

'Ouch,' he said as he collapsed onto the bed. Then 
he fell asleep, missed his alarm clock and was late 
for breakfast.

*

Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night

They met on Thursday night as planned, and then 
again the following night and at midnight on 
Saturday as well, swept away by their turbulent, 
almost unstoppable passions. For four or five hours 
each time - after Sophie had rubbed lotion on 
Charlie's backside - they made love by candlelight, 
talked, made silly, impossible vows and used two 
packets of condoms, all of which ended up in hedges 
and bushes. She still hadn't had her period, which 
had the advantage of not curtailing their fun, but 
she assured him she wasn't late... at least not 
yet.

But the nights without sleep, the energetic, 
clandestine sex and constant subterfuge soon took 
their toll. Charlie was behind with his work, he 
wasn't getting enough rest, kept oversleeping, 
missing meals or chapel, dozing off in class, 
forgetting books and existing on a diet of coke, 
crisps and chocolate. What surprised him, however, 
was that by Saturday, partly due to the cream, the 
weals on his bottom had begun to heal - enough to 
allow him to be more athletic. Lying on his back on 
the floor of the pavilion, he got Sophie to sit 
astride him, and kissed and caressed her breasts as 
she brought them both to three climaxes in 
succession. 

Fortunately for him, his work had always been so 
good that his tutors were willing to overlook his 
recent, less-than-perfect efforts. But he was 
acutely aware that this state of grace wouldn't 
last, that he was living on borrowed time: Dr 
Buckler had his eye on him constantly; it would 
only take one slip, a careless word or look and the 
sky would fall in on him. 

By Sunday he was cracking under the pressure. The 
day before he had got terrible marks in all three 
subjects, and had been told to do the work again 
for Tuesday. Exams were looming, when he wasn't in 
class or revising he was rowing or 
supervising junior boys. Constantly bleary-eyed, 
pale and distracted, it was only the thought of 
seeing Sophie again that kept him going - or 
perhaps it was bringing him to a grinding halt. 

*

Sunday evening

Late on Sunday afternoon, William Prideaux, the 
deputy housemaster of Charlie's boarding house, was 
walking back across the playing fields. A misty, 
almost summer rain had been falling and the air was 
still damp. Along the road the streetlamps were 
just coming on. As the house came into view he saw 
someone sitting on a bench under a chestnut tree on 
the edge of the grounds, leaning forward with their 
head in their hands and staring at the ground. As 
he got closer he saw it was Charlie Millais. 

'Hello Charlie. Not going to supper?'

The boy just glanced up, then fixed his eyes on the 
ground again. 'Not hungry sir.' 

William stopped in front of him. Raindrops were 
still pattering down from the branches above; 
Charlie's hair was wet, water was trickling off his 
shirt collar. He was only wearing a pullover. His 
whole appearance was one of abandon, dejection, 
abjection. 

'You'll catch a chill sitting here,' said William. 
Unlike the busy housemaster, whose time was taken 
up with parents, house administration and finances, 
discipline and reports, his role as deputy brought 
him into daily close contact with all fifty or so 
boys in the house. He knew every one of them inside 
out, warts and all, and as a result was much loved 
by them. Before taking over his present job he had 
been house tutor, and had known Charlie Millais 
since he arrived from prep school as a bright-eyed 
13-year-old. 

He had always had a soft spot for him, partly 
because he had taught him English for the last five 
years, a subject at which Charlie excelled. Over 
time their relationship had become close and 
confiding, a master-pupil friendship of the kind 
peculiar to such schools. But never had the light 
in those big, dark-blue eyes seemed as dim as it 
was this evening. An adolescent boy off his food? 
Not even in the deepest doldrums did they stop 
eating.

Getting no response, William studied him for a 
moment. Then he sat down on the bench beside him. 

'I know what you mean, amice. I expect it's the 
usual Sunday night special - corned beef hash. I 
thought I'd give it a miss too.' 

No reply. Charlie just glanced across the playing 
fields, where a faint mist was rising, then stared 
down at the ground again. 

William looked at him, his tousled hair, the 
delicate, winning profile. His lower lip was 
trembling slightly, his eyelids were pink and 
puffy, his eyes sunken and dark-ringed. 'A' level 
work had that effect on most boys, but this was 
something far more serious. He noticed a faint, 
pinkish mark on his neck, just under his collar. 
Was it a love bite? Charlie hadn't said anything to 
him about a girl (or a boy, you could never be 
completely sure), and they always talked openly 
about such things. Why haven't I picked this up 
before, he asked himself? No, this is a much bigger 
problem. If you don't do something quickly, who 
knows what might happen. 

'Actually, I thought I'd make myself an omelette,' 
he said. 'And there's some tarte tatin as well. Why 
don't you come up to my rooms, I'll cook for you as 
well. We can share a bottle of wine - I've got a 
really nice Fleurie... and some vintage cognac.' 

Bingo! Charlie turned to him, watery eyes widening. 
He tried to smile but it was more of a wince. 

'Thanks, sir, that'll be really nice.' 

'Come on then, amice,' said William, tapping him on 
the shoulder. 'Let's go and get warm, you wouldn't 
think it was nearly summer.' 

William's apartment was on the top floor of the 
house, and could either be reached by a private 
staircase or through the boys' quarters. They took 
the stairs, to avoid prying eyes. William sensed 
that whatever was weighing on Charlie needed to be 
kept secret. When they got in he tossed him a 
towel. 'Here, dry your hair and sit by the fire, 
I'll get you a drink. Tea? Coffee? Something 
stronger?'

Charlie looked at him blankly. 'Do you think I 
could have a drink please sir?'

William smiled. 'Of course. Tell you what, I'll 
make you some black coffee with a dash of brandy in 
it. You look like you could do with it.' 

Charlie just turned away and carried on drying his 
hair. Then he almost collapsed onto the sofa and 
sat staring at the log fire that had been burning 
faintly when they came in. While he was making the 
coffee, William kept glancing at him through the 
door to the little kitchen. The boy was a mess, 
both physically and emotionally; it was true that 
he was more sensitive than most of the others, but 
he'd never seen him in such a state. Suffering was 
etched into his handsome, diffident face, he looked 
hunted, cornered, could see no way out. William 
understood adolescent emotions very well: they 
often had tragic consequences. 

'Here, that'll buck you up,' he said, handing him a 
bowl of sweet black coffee laced with brandy. 
Charlie sniffed it, his rosy nostrils twitched, he 
took a sip, then another, then another.

'Thanks sir, that's great.' 

'I think we can drop the "sir," Charlie. Call me 
William. We've known each other for a long time, 
you're almost eighteen, we're friends.' 

Charlie just looked at him. For a moment his eyes 
seemed to sparkle like they normally did, a faint 
smile played over his lips but quickly faded. He 
drank the coffee, stared at the fire. 

'So what's on your mind, amice?' asked William. 'I 
don't need to tell you that it'll go no further - 
unless you want me to tell someone else, but that's 
up to you.' 

Silence.

'Oh, it's just... stuff,' said Charlie after a 
pause. 

'Pretty heavy stuff, if the state of you is 
anything to go by. You look like death warmed up, 
I've never seen you like this.' 

'Death...' mumbled Charlie. He took a swig of 
coffee, then another, and then, like a sudden 
summer storm he began to cry. His whole body was 
wracked with sobs, tears streamed down his face, 
his lower lip trembled. 

William went over and sat next to him, put his arm 
round him. 'Charlie, Charlie, my darling boy, 
what's the matter? What is it?'

To his surprise, Charlie threw his arms round him, 
buried his face in his shoulder. William's shirt 
was soon soaked with the boy's tears.

'Oh sir, sorry, William...,' Charlie sobbed, 
sniffing, his voice muffled by the man's shoulder, 
'I just can't take it anymore.' 

'There's no need to apologize, amice,' said 
William, patting him on the back, holding him 
tight. 'It takes courage to cry, to say what you 
really feel. Just tell me what the matter is, take 
your time, let it all come out.' 

And, in great, tear-soaked bursts, out it all came: 
the afternoon of love with Sophie, her father 
catching them, the beating, the pain, the shame, 
the enforced silence, the possible pregnancy and 
expulsion, their secret meetings, the sex, the 
love...

William felt humbled. He was overwhelmed - and 
appalled. Twelve strokes of the cane! It was 
outrageous. I thought that was pretty much a thing 
of the past now, he said to himself. And so it 
should be. And then there's all this secrecy, the 
boy's been left completely on his own, isolated. 

'Please don't tell anyone,' begged Charlie. 'Or 
I'll be expelled, I'll never see Sophie again, I... 
I...'

For a while they sat on the sofa, arms around each 
other. Then William got up, poured them both a 
brandy and sat down next to him again. 

'Of course I won't tell anyone, but this can't go 
on, you're at the end of your tether. You'll never 
pass your 'A' levels in this state, let alone 
Oxbridge. We can't have that, amice, it's your 
future that's at stake - and Sophie's. She wants to 
read Classics too, doesn't she?'

Charlie nodded, sniffed.

'Then I think it's time I took this in hand. 
Obviously I can't do anything about the pregnancy 
thing, we'll just have to wait for the results, I'm 
sure it won't be long now. And don't worry, the 
secret of your midnight rendezvous is safe. I 
always thought you were a Romantic!'

Charlie blushed.

'Leave it with me,' William went on. 'I'll have a 
discreet word in the right quarters. It's quite 
wrong that you and Sophie should be put through 
this when all you've done is love each other - 
although I think you could have been wiser about 
your choice of time and place; under her parents' 
roof in a school boarding house was reckless to say 
the least. But there you are - passion waits for no 
man. Okay then, let's eat. You uncork the wine, 
I'll get cooking. We can talk more over supper.' 

William knew from experience that it was best to 
keep people busy in situations like this, so he got 
Charlie to lay the table, cut some bread and put a 
log on the fire as well, all of which the boy did 
readily, glad to be occupied.

'This is really good, William,' he said as they ate 
their omelettes and salade ni¨oise. It wasn't just 
the Beaujolais that had put colour back into his 
cheeks; the master's plan was working. 

'Beats corn beef hash any day, eh! So are you 
behind with your work?'  

'To be honest I'm not sure. I've lost track.' 
Charlie winced slightly and shifted in his chair. 

'Does it still hurt?'

'Not as much as it did, but the scars are still 
raw, if I'm not careful they open up and bleed,' 
said Charlie. Then he blushed. 'Sophie's been 
putting cream on them for me.' 

William roared with laughter. 'You're a lucky 
fellow, having a beautiful girl to rub cream on 
your backside for. The other boys would give their 
right arm to have someone do that!' 

Charlie looked down, reddening even more. 

'And she's lucky too,' William added, refilling 
their glasses. 'Having you as a boyfriend. I know 
what she sees in you.' 

'Do you... I mean... really?' At the word 
'boyfriend' Charlie's face lit up.

William laughed again. If he was honest with 
himself, he was quite jealous of Sophie. Charlie 
Millais was adorable: those diffident, self-
doubting blue eyes, that ready blush was enough to 
turn anyone's head. 

'Of course I mean it. You're kind and gentle. Oh, 
you're not perfect by any means, amice. I've known 
you be sulky and sarcastic, take the piss 
unmercifully out of fourth formers, pick a fight. 
But girls love it if a boy is a bit shy, hesitant, 
they don't like loud-mouths, people who know all 
the answers and never stop talking. Whenever you 
blush you're telling her that she means a lot to 
you.' 

Charlie blushed, emptied his glass. 'Can I have 
some more salad... and maybe another glass of 
wine?' 

'Help yourself. I'll get the tarte tatin.' That's 
step one accomplished, thought William - he's got 
his appetite back. But there's still a way to go. 

'If you need extra tuition to catch up, just tell 
me and I'll arrange it,' said William as they were 
eating the tarte. 'There's no way I'm letting you 
fluff Oxbridge.' 

'I'm not sure I can handle it.' 

'Of course you can. But that's why this business 
with Sophie needs to be sorted out, and then you 
can both concentrate on your exams. So leave things 
to me, amice, and knuckle down to some work.' 

The boy smiled, and poured them both more wine.

It was quite late when he left William's rooms, 
full of a good supper and rather more alcohol than 
even a senior boy was normally allowed, but with a 
lighter heart. He ran a hot bath (it wasn't too 
painful sitting on the hard surface now), then got 
into bed and tried to read a Latin textbook. He 
dozed off for a while, and when he woke a fine rain 
was pattering on the window. The sound was somehow 
comforting, and he turned out the light and went to 
sleep.

*

Monday afternoon

At morning break the next day, William went to see 
Richard Buckler in his office. They were old 
friends and had taught at another school together 
before coming here. 

'I need to have a word with you about Charlie 
Millais,' he said. Richard Buckler stiffened 
slightly. 

'Oh yes? What about? His work has been pretty damn 
shoddy lately. He needs to buck his ideas up or he 
won't get into Oxford.' 

William hesitated, but decided to take the plunge. 
'I'm not surprised his work is suffering after the 
way he's been treated.' 

'What do you mean?'

William just raised an eyebrow and tilted his head 
to one side; it was his way of saying that he knew 
exactly what had happened. 

'So you know... ? He told you... after the 
Headmaster specifically ordered him not to say a 
word to anyone... How dare he!'

'With respect to the Headmaster,' said William, 
'that's far too big a burden to lay on a 17-year 
old boy who's about to take his 'A' levels and then 
do Oxbridge. I found him sitting under a tree in 
the rain; he looked as if he was going to hang 
himself from the branches - I'm not exaggerating, 
that sort of thing happens. He had to talk to 
someone, Richard, it's a basic human need. I've 
been his tutor for five years, so I know him very 
well. And I assure you that I won't breathe a word 
to anyone about the business with Sophie.' 

Richard Buckler frowned. 'The "business with 
Sophie" as you so coyly put it might have got her 
pregnant, quite apart from the fact that he did it 
under my roof, completely flaunted school rules. A 
beating was better than expulsion, I'm sure you'll 
agree.' 

'You know my views on corporal punishment,' said 
William. 'And when you say "he did it" you seem to 
be forgetting that it takes two to tango, if you'll 
pardon the expression. Sophie obviously loves him, 
otherwise she'd have never...'

'Love?' said Richard. 'Don't be ridiculous. They're 
just kids.' 

'Don't mock, Richard. You might call it puppy love, 
but to them it's deadly serious. I've talked to 
Charlie, and he certainly is. If you try and keep 
them apart there'll be tragic consequences, I 
promise you.' 

'So what do you suggest, William? Surely you don't 
expect...?'

'No. But I think they could be allowed to see each 
other, it'll help their feelings evolve. They're 
both applying to Oxford to read the same subject, 
they have plenty in common... in a word, they can 
give each other the support they need at the 
moment. You've taught Charlie for years, Richard, 
you know him - and you know your own daughter: 
they're both intelligent and responsible, if you 
show them some trust they'll repay you.' 

William smiled to himself. He'd been slightly 
liberal with his use of the word 'responsible.' But 
he had no intention of telling Sophie's father 
about her and Charlie's midnight assignations, 
which although touching were a sign of the 
desperation they both felt. 

'Responsible?' queried Richard. 'I'm not so sure. 
But you're a good man, William, the boys in your 
house think the world of you. Young Millais doesn't 
know how lucky he is to have you on his side. I'll 
talk to my wife, and Sophie, see what we can do.' 

William smiled. 'You're a good man too, Richard. I 
knew I could count on you.'

*

Tuesday afternoon

The next morning, Charlie's housemaster told him 
that he had to go and see Dr Buckler after school 
that afternoon. His stomach knotted, his blood ran 
cold. What now, he thought? William had only told 
him that he had spoken to Sophie's father, nothing 
more. 

He made his way over to Lutyens as inconspicuously 
as possible, heart pounding, hoping not to bump 
into anyone he knew. When he knocked on the door of 
Richard Buckler's study, his hand was shaking as 
much as when he was summoned to the Headmaster. 

'Come in,' said Sophie's father, waving him to a 
chair in front of his desk. Charlie sat down 
awkwardly, still trembling slightly, painfully 
aware that he was blushing and that this man had 
witnessed both his crime and his punishment. 

'Well, young man,' began the master, looking at him 
over his half-moon glasses. 'You've got influential 
friends, people who are prepared to go in to bat 
for you.' 

William! thought Charlie.

'Mr Prideaux came to see me, he knows you better 
than I do. I have to say that he would have made an 
excellent defence lawyer... which, considering your 
behaviour, was definitely what you needed.' 

Charlie blushed and looked down. Fuck, he thought, 
what now? Have they found out about the pavilion? 

'I've got some good news for you,' Richard Buckler 
went on. 'No thanks to you, Sophie isn't pregnant. 
So you can thank your lucky stars that nature 
intervened on your behalf as well as your friend - 
and I use the word advisedly - Mr Prideaux.' 

He watched as a visible look of relief spread over 
the boy's face. 'But please don't think that I 
condone your behaviour. I most certainly don't. 
You've simply been lucky this time - and I'm not 
prepared for there to be a second time, at least as 
long as you're still a pupil at the school. Is that 
clear?'

'Yes sir.' Charlie swallowed hard. 

'However,' the master went on, 'having spoken to my 
wife, to Sophie, Mr. Prideaux and to the 
Headmaster,' (here Charlie shuddered) 'it's quite 
clear that you're fond of each other and have 
things in common - not least that you're both 
applying to read Classics at Oxford. So your 
guardian angel, Mr. Prideaux, is quite right when 
he says that you'll be able to help each other 
through what is an extremely arduous academic 
test.'  

Charlie just looked at him. He couldn't quite grasp 
what the man was getting at. 

'So...' Richard Buckler continued, 'I'm prepared to 
let you and Sophie see each other, go out 
occasionally. And, if your parents agree, she might 
be able to visit you at home during the holidays so 
you can revise together - on the condition that 
there isn't a repeat performance of last week. Is 
that clear?'

Charlie couldn't believe his ears. He just sat with 
his mouth open. 

Richard Buckler watched him for a moment. 'I'll 
take that as a yes,' he said. 'Sophie's school is 
having a sixth form dance this Saturday. If you'd 
like to take her, then my wife and I are quite 
happy about that, as long as you come straight back 
afterwards and are home by midnight at the latest - 
we'll be waiting up to make sure you do - and don't 
oversleep and miss chapel the next morning.' 

'No sir, right sir, of course, absolutely sir!' 
Suddenly Charlie seemed to snap out of a trance. He 
stammered and blushed uncontrollably. . 'That's 
fantastic sir, thank you very much, I... I...'

'That's settled then,' said Richard Buckler. 'It 
might be a good idea if you came over and met my 
wife, and perhaps talked to Sophie, one evening 
this week. Shall we say Thursday after prep? I have 
a feeling that we're going to be seeing quite a lot 
of you from now on.' 

Charlie dared to smile. 'Yes sir, yes, of course, 
I'd like that very much, thank you sir...'

For the first time, Richard Buckler smiled as well. 
With all the recent drama he had quite forgotten 
what a nice boy Charlie Millais was. The sort of 
boy who you'd be happy to let your daughter go out 
with...

'Very good,' he said. 'Off you go then young man. 
Oh yes...' he added as Charlie got to the door, 
almost glowing. 'Don't forget that Homer 
translation I set last week. It's due tomorrow 
morning without fail.' 

'Right sir, absolutely, you'll have it on the dot 
sir, I promise.' 

The master listened to him hurry away down the 
corridor, and chuckled to himself. 

As he was walking out, Charlie bumped into Johnny 
Templeton, one of his friends. 

'Hey Millais!' said the other boy, 'the Girls' 
Convent have got a bop this Saturday. Are you 
going?'

'Yes, as it happens.' 

'Oh yeah,' sniggered Johnny sarcastically, 'and I 
suppose you've got a bird to take as well?'

'I have actually,' said Charlie, trying to hide his 
feelings of triumphant excitement beneath a veil of 
nonchalance.

'Yeah, yeah, yeah, much,' said Johnny. 'Who is it 
then, Minnie Mouse?'

'Sophie Buckler.' 

Johnny just stared at him. But before he could say 
anything more, Charlie was gone. He felt as if his 
feet had wings. All the way down the road back to 
his house he jumped up at the weeping cherry trees 
and plucked blossom, tossed it in the air.  'Yes!' 
he kept repeating, 'yes, yes, yes!'

The moment he got in he ran straight upstairs and 
knocked on William Prideaux's door. When he opened 
it, the master was met with the sight of a boy 
almost dancing up and down. 

'Come in,' he laughed. 'I'd say that you've got 
something to tell me. You look like a dog with two 
tails.' 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Charlie 
threw his arms round him. He was crying tears of 
joy. 

'Thank you sir... William... thank you so much, you 
saved my life! I don't know what I'd have done 
without you!'

William just laughed, patted him on the back. 'Me? 
Surely not. I just appealed to Dr Buckler's better 
nature. We all have one, you know - even the 
Headmaster.' They both laughed. 'So, amice, what's 
your news? I can see you're itching to tell me.' 

'I can go out with Sophie!' laughed Charlie, his 
face aglow. 'I'm taking her to a dance at the 
Convent on Saturday, we'll be able to see each 
other, help each other with revision, she can even 
come and stay... we can... we can...'

'This calls for a celebration,' smiled William, 
'only I think it had better just be cider, you 
can't supervise junior prep drunk.' And he poured 
them both a glass. Charlie could barely stand 
still, he was hopping from one foot to the other. 
The boy who had been sitting under the tree 
thinking suicidal thoughts was quite forgotten.

William looked at his ecstatic face. Being deputy 
housemaster was a thankless task, but every once in 
a while you were rewarded with something - and 
someone - very special. 

'Will you come to our wedding?' asked Charlie. 'No, 
actually, I'd like you to be my best man! I bet 
you'd give a fantastic speech!'

'Aren't we getting slightly ahead of ourselves?' 
laughed William. 'Once you've calmed down there's 
the small matter of exams. And talking of speeches, 
I've got a testimonial to write for your Oxford 
application, it goes to your first choice of 
college. The Headmaster asked me to draft it for 
him. So I suggest you behave.' 

They grinned at each other. 

'Here's an idea,' William added. 'Why don't you and 
Sophie come for a drink before you go to the dance 
on Saturday? I only know her vaguely, it would be 
nice to talk to you both, hear about your plans - 
for university,' he added, smiling, 'not for the 
wedding.' 

Charlie's blue eyes sparkled. 'That would be cool,' 
he said, and threw his arms round him again. 

'Drink up,' said William, 'it's time you got down 
to some work. Don't forget you've got a Chaucer 
essay to do for me, it's due the day after 
tomorrow.' 

Charlie drained his glass in one, shook both of 
William's hands until he thought they would drop 
off, and then rushed off back to his room.

*

EPILOGUE

So how did things turn out? From then on - or as 
much as work and school rules allowed - Charlie and 
Sophie were virtually inseparable. Despite his 
promises to her father, however, and the memory of 
his beating, they continued to meet in the cricket 
pavilion, although only a few times a month - and 
always using what the Headmaster had so prudishly 
referred to as 'protection.' In fact they often 
didn't make love at all, or just had very slow, 
gentle sex, and would spent the rest of the night 
in each other's arms, talking, kissing, waiting for 
the first light of dawn before returning to 
everyday reality.

They both got excellent grades at 'A' level, and by 
working together through a long, cold, exhausting 
and often miserable Michaelmas term, passed the 
Oxbridge exam, much to William Prideaux's delight. 
On his advice they choose different Oxford colleges 
- it was best not to live on top of each other, he 
said, it could starve a relationship of life. In 
the nine months before going up to Oxford they 
travelled round Europe together, worked on the 
grape harvest in the South of France and at a youth 
camp in Spain, visited ancient monuments in Greece 
and Italy, stayed in little pensions, made love in 
the afternoon, danced till dawn and lived on kisses 
and cafˇ cr¸me. 

They kept in touch with William Prideaux, who went 
on to become housemaster before being offered the 
post of headmaster of another school. He remained a 
bachelor, devoted himself to the boys in his 
charge, was instrumental in having corporal 
punishment abolished, and helped revolutionize 
pastoral care in boarding schools. Of all the boys 
he helped and advised, none of them ever captured 
his heart quite like Charlie Millais, whose 
photograph always stood on the desk in his study, 
his shy, dark blue eyes staring out at him, full of 
hope and tinged with self-doubt. 

END

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The
author does not condone the described behavior in
real life in any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted
to act out any of the scenarios in this story should
seriously consider seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 80