A Male Escort by Accident

On the same corridor as the two fatidic studies, there was a spare room which had been designated as a changing room. So boys slated for the cane, first went there ahead of the witching hour at which arses and canes were destined to conduct their painful tryst, changed out of their day clothes into the appropriate attire; they then went and stood in the corridor at the appropriate door and waited to be called in to face their inevitable fate at the capable hands of either the Headmaster or the Head-Boy. And believe when I say capable hands, for whatever else they may have been both the Headmaster and, in my own experience, a succession of Head-Boys were eminently capable when it came to laying the cane onto a lad's naked arse. Then, their beating finished, nursing their welted and painfully roasted arses, the unfortunate recipients returned to the changing room to put back on their day clothes before returning to their respective houses. I suppose that one could give some marks for empathy to the Headmaster and the Head-Boy in that beatings were always in the evening so that the lads could go straight to bed afterwards and nurse their wounds rather than having to go and sit on a hard wooden seat in class again.

In the individual houses, beatings also tended to be in the evenings, and there what usually happened was that the unfortunate victim was called from his dormitory wearing just his pyjamas, the trousers of which could easily be dropped to give access to that all-important part of his anatomy to be addressed by the cane. So by now you have, I am sure, all got the message; the cane and birch reigned supreme at Frogmore and were always applied to the bare arse of the miscreant.

CHAPTER 3

But I have got ahead of myself, as when I first arrived at Frogmore, I knew nothing of what I have just recounted above. In fact, I was like a fish out of water as the other first-year boys, both in class and in my dorm in Hanover House, were all products of an English preparatory school, for the most part, but not exclusively, Frogmore Court. The English preparatory school, a more or less obligatory precursor to the public school, was also, in the main, totally devoted to the beneficial effects of the cane applied to the naked bottoms of its charges; so most, if not all of my classmates that first year, were fully conversant with the joys of the cane. Add to this naivety of a young boy from the Mid-West of America, totally unfamiliar with English ways and with an accent which sounded harsh and crude in the context of a group of upper-class young lads all of whom spoke the sort of English which the average American and indeed, also the average young Brit, qualified as toffee-nosed, you can easily see that I felt like an outsider: someone from outer space; and let's face it, for that is exactly what I was; an outsider.

Outsider or not, possibly out of curiosity value, I found myself appointed on my first day as the Head-Boy's fag. I was, as an American, not familiar with the word fag, before I became one, although having received the honour I did look it up in an American dictionary to find what the word actually meant. The expression, it's a bit of a fag means the same thing in America as it does in England: that the thing you are doing is a bit of a drudge and you would rather not do it. But as used in the British public school context, the fag is not the task but the boy whose job it is to perform the task. In a word, a fag at Frogmore was a first year boy, who functioned as an unpaid servant at the beck and call of an older boy. In fact, by the time I arrived at the school, fagging, as the act of being a fag was known, had more or less been eliminated -- but not quite -- as the Head-Boy and the six House-Captains, each had a dedicated fag to carry out menial tasks on their behalves. In the case of the House-Captains, first year boys took it in turn on a rotational basis during the year to fag for the Captain of their house, so that a modicum of democracy existed. However, in the case of the Head-Boy, it was was what one might call a job for life; well not exactly for life, but for the full school year; with no relief at all in the form of someone else taking over part way; and so I found myself at the mercy of that year's Head-Boy, a handsome looking, blond-haired aristocratic type called Robert Digby-Scott, who, as I quickly found out, was a totally unforgiving bully in spite of his attractive outward appearance,

The Brits are very keen on double-barrelled surnames, which usually mean that the holder comes from the top reaches of the upper social classes; and Digby-Scott, as I quickly learned I had to address him as such, knew his place in society and kept me in mine. I never understood how I, a gauche mid-westerner from Chicago, with my grating, American accent which stood out like a sore thumb at Frogmore as soon as I opened my mouth, came to be selected to act as skivvy, for that was what I became, to this arrogant young man. But I did and I was stuck with the job. Digby-Scott occupied that suite of Head-Boy's rooms along the corridor from the Headmaster as I have already described above and in his position of Head-Boy, given his job of sharing the regular Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening punishment sessions with the Headmaster, was more or less the flagellator in chief of the school. As I quickly realised, no one in the whole school whacked more arses than he did, given the habit of the Headmaster of leaving all but the most serious of cases to his Head-Boy for correction. And in this respect, no one could have done the job better than Digby-Scott did; for as I quickly found out to my own cost, he was a consummate expert with the cane, which he was always ready to use at any time in addition to the scheduled punishment schedules.

One of my first tasks with him was to lay out his clothes for the following day in his bedroom each evening. Digby-Scott was a vain, young man and had two complete school uniforms; lord knows how many shirts and sets of underwear and two pairs of black Oxford shoes, which he which he insisted on being shined to a high polish. And that is how I fell afoul of him on my second day as his fag, when I had not cleaned his shoes to his liking which he made very clear saying: "Stevens, you have made an absolute pig's ear of cleaning my shoes. Get back to the service kitchen and do the job properly before I feel obliged to teach you a lesson." I can tell you that I needed little imagination to see how he taught boys a lesson as there in a stick stand at the side of his desk was a large selection of wicked looking rattan canes. So I kow-towed to him, metaphorically touching my forelock with my knuckle in the way sailors of old did, and scuttled off to rectify the situation. But every little error I made was drawn to my attention with threats of correction as he liked to call it.

Thinks came to a head or better put, came to my arse, in the form of my first beating the first Friday afternoon of the new term. Digby-Scott had invited the six House-Captains to his study where he proposed to carry out what I later learned was an annual ritual of distributing new rattan canes to the prefects. This ceremony was part of an old, Frogmore tradition going way back. At the start of the new school year in September, the Headmaster ordered several boxes of rattan canes which the Head-Boy then handed out to the House-Captains who in turn then passed on the appropriate rods of justice to their co-prefects. Digby-Scott told me to be ready to make tea for him and his co-prefects but before that to go along to the school stores and collect the new cane consignment from Mr. Jennings, the janitor. Well when I got there, Jennings had the canes ready for me to pick-up and take back to the Head-Boy's study; but to my amazement they were in no less than seven, three-foot-long, shallow cardboard boxes. "Come on lad, hold out your arms and I'll load you up," said Mr. Jennings jovially as he added, "They're not heavy and you'll be able to manage them in one go. Just take your time lad, and you'll be alright; but try not to drop them as you'll have a hard time picking that lot up again by yourself." And so with these comforting words, I left with seven boxes in my outstretched arms. And it was true; they were not too heavy; but they were very cumbersome. All went well until I arrived at the door of Head-Boy's study which I foolishly tried to open myself rather than knocking, thereby allowing the whole lot to come crashing down.

Digby-Scott heard the crash and flung open the door to find me attempting to pick up the boxes, several of which had split open and deposited their contents onto the floor. "What on earth are you doing you clumsy oaf? Why did you not knock and have me open the door for for you. Pick that lot up and bring them inside and try to put them and back in their boxes in some sort of order." Dying with embarrassment I picked up the fallen items and put the lot as indicated on a table under the the window. Digby-Scott stood over me wearing a gloweringly exasperated expression while I, totally flustered and nervous, attempted to restore some order into the mess I had inadvertently created. I read for the first time the labels on the boxes. Six were the same and read:-

Acme School Supplies

This box contains two junior and two senior, straight-handled, school- punishment, canes. These canes are made of the finest, seasoned Malacca rattan which is universally acknowledged as the material of choice for the finest punishment canes. Oil them with our patent cane oil once a year and they will give years of faithful service.

The seventh box contained six assorted senior canes and was obviously intended for the Head-Boy, although I did wonder why he needed them when he already had at his disposal a stick stand bristling with a large selection of such weapons -- which is how I thought of them. Just looking at all these weapons of punishment made my blood run cold.

"You had better cut along to the kitchen and make the tea as my guests will be arriving in a few minutes. And do try, Stevens, not to make a mess. You need the large teapot as we shall be seven so do remember to bring enough crockery and the milk and sugar and please try not to drop the lot this time Stevens."

Armed with this cautionary order, I duly went to make the tea and things went from bad to worse. Can you imagine a more absurd request than asking a young American lad to make tea for a group of senior English publics school boys? I have to admit that I forgot completely that the beverage I had drunk at breakfast since the start of term was probably tea. But for me, a Chicagoan, tea meant a branded cold drink, known as Lipton's Ice Tea, which was sort of a bit like second-rate Coca Cola except that it was not fizzy; but how it was made, I had not the faintest idea; it was always there in the fridge in summer and I just helped myself. So as far as making tea was concerned I had about as much idea how to proceed as I had about speaking Chinese. In the kitchen, where boys were allowed to make hot drinks for themselves, I questioned one of the older boys about what to do, to receive a rather witheringly condescending reply that it was simple. All I had to do was to put three heaped tea-spoons of tea into the large pot and pour on the water, which I duly did; but of course, my informant had not stressed the fact that the water needed to be boiling, so when it seemed to me to be hot enough, into the pot it went.

Feeling rather proud of what I considered my modest achievement, I carefully carried the tray loaded with crockery, teaspoons, milk and sugar back to the Head-Boy's study, where the House-Captains, including Mark Simmons, the then captain of my own house, had already arrived and were eagerly examining their new sets of canes. I should have remembered that pride often goes before a fall; and my fall, which unbeknown to me at that moment was imminent as it was already pre-ordained by my incompetence in making the tea; and when it finally happened it was a really painful experience. As I entered the room bearing my load, I could feel the sense of erotic euphoria in the air as these guys salivated over the collection of new canes and the purpose to which they would be put. I noticed that for one or two of them, just the act of fondling the canes turned them on as clearly shown by that faithful but uncontrollable, tell-tale indicator: the tenting of the crotches of their pants.

Digby-Scott lost no time in putting me in my place; "Well Stevens, I see you finally made it; and about time too; what took you so long? We all thought that you had gone to China to fetch he tea. Well better late than never, (I was not actually aware of the fact that I was, evidently, late). So anyway now that you are finally here, get on with it boy; put that lot on my desk and pour us all a cup of tea as we are all practically dying of thirst." I did as I had been bidden and to my horror as the first cup of tea poured from the spout of the tea-pot, I saw to my utter horror that what should have been a clear liquid emerged with huge, floating, log-like tea-leaves. Digby-Scott's reaction was immediate and to say the least, angry: "Stevens, you are an utterly incompetent idiot. The water was clearly not boiling when you poured it onto the tea and as a result the tea has not drawn properly and it is totally undrinkable. Take the pot back to the kitchen and make a new lot immediately and see that the water is properly boiling this time before you pour it into the pot." Can you imagine how I felt? I was utterly petrified by what had happened. "Well boy, don't stand there dithering; get out of here and get on with it; you will have a lot to answer for if you find us all dead from thirst by the time you get back." Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill; my fag-master had managed to blow the thing up into the full range of the Rockies and had made me feel so very small as I scuttled out of his study bearing the fated pot of tea to try to redeem myself. But somehow, I sensed that my goose was cooked whatever I did; and I was right.

The second pot of tea, successfully made and poured, I stood there under the collective and maliciously baleful gaze of the assembled House Captains, wondering what would happen next as I had been given no further instructions by Digby-Scott and had been left to stand there in a high state of fearful, nervous anticipation of what was to come. My own House Captain gave word to what I imagine were the collective thoughts of the assembly and issued what amounted to a call for my immediate execution as he said: "You know, Digby-Scott, if Stevens were my fag I'd not hesitate to give him six right now to teach him a lesson, which after his performance today he richly merits."

"My dear fellow, you don't know the half of it. Stevens has demonstrated his incompetence and lack of application since the moment he started fagging for me earlier his week. He not only left my shoes unpolished but he also then threw the new boxes of canes onto the floor, which is why some of the boxes are split open; and then the final straw, his performance with the tea." He then went to the stick stand at the side of his desk and looked over the canes, finally choosing one and pointed it at me: "Stevens, as your own House-Captain has just said, you really do need correcting and I think that is probably the view of us all." He looked around the room and there was a collective murmur of agreement from the House-Captains, who scenting blood, were only too willing to give their approval. "Stevens, kindly move the beating stool from over there by the wall into the centre of the room and bend across it in the usual manner when I shall give myself the pleasure of correcting you in the time honoured manner we use here at Frogmore."

The beating stool? The usual manner? I felt my heart rate rise to panic pitch as I realised that I was about to get my first Frogmore beating. I confess that until the word, beating stool, had been mentioned, I had not noticed this professionally-made piece of purpose-built furniture designed to accommodate all heights of boys. As I shifted this heavy chair, for this is what it was, to the centre of the room, I saw that it had a very heavy, leather-covered top rail which was adjustable to any height by a simple screw mechanism, so that the unfortunate victim who was to be corrected -- in this case me -- could present his bottom in the perfect position to receive his punishment: an ingenious and useful piece of late late Victorian imagination, which showed the devotion of our forebears to the benefits of corporal punishment applied to errant schoolboys' backsides. Familiar as I was with the paddling's I had received at my prep school back in the USA, I naively then bent across the back of the chair which seemed to be set at about the right height for me, placed my hands on the seat, stuck my bum into the air and waited for the onslaught. There was a long silence during which nothing happened.

"Stevens, what on earth do you think you are doing? When I tell you to bend across the stool in the usual manner, I expect you to do as you are told and not to try to make a fool of me." I had no idea, none at all, what he was talking about but he quickly made it clear: "Stevens, you really are a naïve nit-wit with no idea at all of how we deal with boys like you here in England; so let me help you to understand what is required of a boy who is to be corrected here at Frogmore. First of all, Stevens, all beating is done to the bare arse (that was the first time I had heard that word used; but I soon learned that is was the expression universally used among the pupils at the school). So Stevens, take off your blazer, your shoes, your trousers and underpants, and bend across the chair again and let me see your bare arse. Come on boy; jump to it, I haven't got all day."

My heart, already racing, now went into overdrive. I had had no idea until that very moment that the cane was applied to the naked backside of the offender, although thereafter it quickly became commonplace as I seemed to have no problem in collecting beatings. But at that moment, the prospect of exposing what I had hitherto thought of as my private parts in front of the assembled company was highly embarrassing, not to mention very frightening. I was my first real experience of that state of nudity, either total or semi, which was a very common state of dress -- or better put: undress -- at Frogmore. Boys in British public schools live, shower and sleep together so that there is no way that one's private credentials remain unscrutinized by one's classmates. So trembling with fear of the unknown, I did as I was told. What else could I do?

Digby-Scott looked on impatiently and then came across to the chair over which I was now bent, and adjusted the height of the back to his liking so that I found myself with my naked arse stuck in the air with only the tips of my toes touching the floor. And it was with me in that unhappy, uncomfortable position that the Head-Boy then went ahead and gave my poor naked arse six resoundingly painful strokes of the cane. I had braced myself for the first stroke, thinking that it would be much the same as with the American paddle; but I was just so very wrong; it was ten times more painful! I suppose that all boys have the same reaction the first time a well-applied rattan cane lands with that resounding crack on their naked skin; they wonder what has happened and whether they will be able to stand the coming strokes. I don't know how to describe the pain as it was unlike anything I had felt hitherto. I suppose it was how it might feel if a red-hot poker were laid across your naked skin; not that that was a comparison I wanted to experience. But I saw that Digby-Scott was an expert with the rod; he had clearly served a successful apprenticeship previous year as junior prefect to the gentle art of flagellation; he now had what one could but define as a highly refined technique; he left long pauses between each cut to allow me allow me fully to appreciate his skill. It was an absolutely awful experience, but it did introduce me to the real world of Frogmore, which as I rapidly saw, truly did merit its nickname of Flog-more: a place where the cane rarely slept for long.