Max Carrington's "Coup de Foudre"

CHAPTER 1

The other day, late one afternoon, I was walking along a quiet path in the park, when suddenly I experienced what the French call a Coup de Foudre, which literally translates into English as a Bolt of Lightning. Of course I had not been struck by lightning; otherwise I should not be here to tell this story. Metaphorically, Coup de Foudre also means falling in love at first sight. But in my case I have given it a slightly different meaning, which I will, in due course explain to to you, but which still depends on the immediacy of the expression. But before I get to that first let me introduce myself and tell you something about myself and then then all will become clear.

My name is Maxim Alexander Carrington, known to all and sundry as Max. I am twenty-seven years old and I am gay and I make no secret of the fact that I lead a very active gay sex-life which I thoroughly enjoy. I had the misfortune to lose both my parents in a car accident when I was just twenty.

My father, Alexander David Carrington, had been a stockbroker. I had always known that as a family we were quite well-off, but until the wills were read, just how well-off, I had had no idea. My father had owned outright the stock-broking firm of Carrington and Crawley. At some stage, my father had bought out his then partner, Francis Crawley and had thereby become the sole owner of the brokerage. Later he had sold the firm and at the time of his death was enjoying his retirement. We had never lived in a house but always in a huge apartment on the south side of the park, which is where I now live in solitary splendour. I choose for the moment to live alone, as I have not yet met anyone with whom I wish to share my daily life and, of course, my bed. But I am by no means lonely, as I have lots of friends and lead a very active, gay social-life. So I am quite happy with my lot in life; or so I was until the lightning struck.

My father, with whom I had never been very close, had had the foresight to make early provisions for his ultimate demise. He had taken advantage of every legal possibility to ensure that as much of his wealth as possible came to me and did not fall into the hands of the tax-man. And so, on my parents' somewhat untimely demise, I found myself a very rich young man. I owned the family flat and I found myself a millionaire many time over, even after all inheritance taxes had been paid. So all in all, I found that I did not need to work for a living as I could easily live on the income from my capital, which was managed by a firm of investment advisors and accountants.

At the time of the accident I was in my second year at Cambridge, reading history. I went on to graduate aged twenty-one (a lower second, in case you are wondering) and thereafter moved permanently back to live in the family flat south of the park, where I now lead a life which might best be described as foot-loose and fancy-free; and believe me, when I tell you that my fancy really is free. I have the wherewithal to indulge my tastes and that is what I do. A hollow life you might think, but I am not unhappy. But let me tell you a bit about my earlier life and the milestones which conditioned and influenced me.

Like most boys of rich families, I was sent first to a prep school, Frogmore Court, and then on to a public school, Frogmore Academy for Boys. Both schools were way up north near York, but as my father, my grandfather and my great grandfather before me had gone there, it was practically engraved in tablets of stone at my birth, that I too would also suffer the same fate in the name of a proper education.

Before I was shipped off up north to be educated, I had been a day-boy at a very up-market, private day-school within walking distance of our flat on the south side of the park. My nanny, whom I loved dearly and knew much better than my mother, used to take me and bring me home on a daily basis. At school, I was called Max both by the teachers (all young females) and my classmates and there was not even a whiff of corporal punishment of any kind. As those of you reading this who have had the pleasure (sometimes preceded by the epithet: doubtful) of an upper-class public school education, will already know, all that changed dramatically the moment I entered prep school. My nanny accompanied me on the train up north and saw me settled in the school and I confess I did not want her to leave me there and wept bitterly to be left by myself in this new place where I knew no one

I cannot say with any conviction that I really liked school and I was never, throughout my entire scholastic career from age eight to going on nineteen, a very industrious pupil. Numerous masters said, with some justification, that I lacked application, a most important quality, in their eyes and that if I applied myself, which I never did, I could do well academically. But it was precisely this lack of application, already evident aged eight, coupled with a tendency either to disobey or ignore instructions, which led me to my first encounter with what was to become a constant companion throughout my entire school life: the dreaded rattan cane. The birch, thank God, was already a thing of the past, but the cane was omnipresent and in daily use throughout my school career.

I am not at all sure that schools and I got on terribly well together as I found that my backside seemed to require regular communion with the cane, which was in liberal and vigorous use in both schools, irrespective of age; no boy's arse in any class, right through to the upper sixth, was totally safe. Speaking of my own backside, it seemed as if the cane was drawn to it as if by magnetism in exactly the way that iron filings are attracted to a magnet. We are told that the filings arrange themselves along what are called the lines of force of the magnetic field. Well just let me tell you, that from my own experience, the cane came down its lines of force before landing on my backside, dissipating its entire energy in the form of loud crack accompanied by a great deal of pain. But I am getting ahead of myself; so let me concentrate first on my prep-school experiences and tell you how I was initiated into the much overrated pleasure of bare-bum caning.

CHAPTER 2

My earliest encounter with the very painful experience of having my naked bum beaten, took place very shortly after my arrival, aged eight, at Frogmore Court; oh yes indeed, they began early! As I have already said, I had a rather pernicious streak of disobedience built into my character: an ideal hook on which any master could hang a reason for a beating; which they readily did! Well in my second week at prep-school we were supposed to copy down from the blackboard a number of mathematical sums, additions and subtractions and so on, into our exercise book, and then complete them to give the answers. I did not really see the point and so I just sat there doing nothing throughout the entire period. Needless to say the master in charge saw what I had done, or better put, what I had not done and was, as the saying goes, sore displeased.

"Carrington," said Mr. Adams, "What have you been doing for the last half hour?" It must have been as plain as a pikestaff that I had being doing absolutely nothing and so I did not answer. "You boy, will come to my study immediately before lunch (there was about a half-hour break between the last morning class and the serving of the midday meal) and I will endeavour to impress on you (on my bum, as it turned out and a very appropriate choice that word "impress") the importance of doing your work. You, Carrington, have all the early makings of a slacker and it is my duty to see that this attitude (a word which dogged my entire school career, usually preceded by the epithet, wrong) is not allowed to continue."

Highly nervous, I reported to Mr. Adams in his study shortly after twelve. He was sitting behind his desk and in front of him sat a long thin cane. I realised that this was intended for me and was so frightened at the prospect of what might happen that I immediately started to cry. I had no idea, none at all, of how the cane was used in the school; but I was soon to find out. "Carrington, I will have no more of your nonsense in class. Is that clear boy? When I, or any the master, tells you to do something, then you do it. Is that clear? Carrington you are a new boy, but you need to be taught a lesson and I would be lacking in my duty if I failed to teach you that lesson. Take of your blazer, your shoes and your trousers; then go and kneel on that low chair over there, bend across the back and stick your bottom high into the air."

He had already placed the chair in question in the middle of the room. It was one with a fairly low back and I tearfully went across and did as he had ordered me me. I knelt on the seat and bent cross the back of the chair, sticking my bum (that's what I then called it) into the air, clothed only in my underpants. "Carrington, for goodness sakes stop snivelling boy. I haven't yet touched you; show a little backbone boy, (this to an eight year-old) and keep your tears until later when you truly have something to cry about. Now boy, stand up as I see that you are rather low. Put that cushion on the chair and kneel on that and then I think you will be at the right height for me to correct you."

Correct me! I now knew that I was going to get my bum corrected: a euphemism for a beating with the cane. Mr. Adams came across holding the cane and told me to bend further over the back of the chair and then, to my utter horror, he pulled down my underpants exposing my bare bum to his ministrations. I was scared out of my wits by what was about to happen to me, for I had had no idea at all that I was to be caned on my bare bum until the moment he pulled down my underpants. But that is exactly what happened.

Remember, I was only eight years old and I suppose that the cane was a light one, destined for younger bums such as mine; but nevertheless as it bit into my naked flesh, I felt I would die. It was the very first time in my life that anyone had ever hit me. As an infant, my father had never, ever spanked me; and now here I was, a non-swimmer, so to speak, thrown into the deep-end of the pool and expected to be able to swim. It was horrible and I wept bitterly. Mr. Adams did not spare himself (no master ever did in, my experience) in his quest to inculcate some notion of obedience into me; and when, after no less than six swingeing cuts, I was finally told to get up and get dressed, I thought my bum was on fire.

I was the first of my class to be caned. I guess all the others, who had heard what Mr. Adams had said to me in front of them, were wondering exactly what would happen to me as none of us knew anything about the punishments dished out - liberally and vigorously, as it turned out - by the school. So I was the first and as such, in spite of the pain and my tears, I attempted to put on a brave face in the refectory that lunch time; but I could not bear to sit down because of my sore bum and ate my lunch standing up. And then, of course, before the first class of the afternoon, my all classmates wanted not only to know what had happened, but also to view the damage; and so I became the first (of many!) to show my wounds to my classmates in that regular exhibition hall: the lavatories. You could, I suppose say, that I had been well and truly initiated into the system. Of course, looking back on it now, I suppose I deserved all I got on that occasion, because of my action, or rather my inaction, in class that morning.

I was a pupil at Frogmore Court from age eight until I left, aged thirteen to move to the public school proper, Frogmore Academy. I lost count of the number of times I had to present my bare bum to sundry masters for punishment; but it was pretty often. And even in the evenings, in the eight bed dormitory where I slept with the same seven schoolmates throughout my prep-school days, we were still under the constant shadow of the cane. There was a cane-happy young man, Mr. Addison, who was called the Dorm Tutor, whose only job seemed to be to police the various dormitories each evening and to mete out a sore bum to any boy whom he deemed needed it. He was quite capable of caning an entire dorm if he thought the boys needed it.

I can remember one gruesome occasion when I was ten or eleven, and my dorm was having a pillow fight after lights out. We quite stupidly had thought that the coast was clear, had switched back on the lights and were in the process of merrily battering each other with our pillows, when suddenly the door was flung open and there stood Mr. Addison, brandishing his cane; he always carried the cane with him as he made his rounds and I suspect that every evening some boy somewhere felt his wrath. Well we stopped immediately we saw him. "The lot of you: pyjama bottoms off and across the foot of your beds and let me see your naked bottoms; and be quick about it." And then he went from boy to boy and gave him six hard cuts across his naked bum. We all went to bed with well-beaten bums that night. One had to admit that Mr. Addison certainly knew how to use the cane.

One thing was quite clear; whether academically gifted or indifferent, as in my case, Frogmore Court prep-school had certainly prepared us for the cane-happy environment into which we were all thrust aged thirteen: Frogmore Academy for Boys. There were six houses at the school all named after the ruling dynasties of England. I was in Tudor House, as had been my forebears before me; and I was assigned, as at Frogmore Court, to a dorm of eight, four of whom had been my dorm-mates at Frogmore Court and so I did not feel at all lonely. I don't want to dwell overly on my time at Frogmore, save to say that I was was very often the unwilling owner of a well-beaten arse; the arse being the universally used expression at Frogmore for one's bottom; the word used by the more verbally restrained, teaching staff when they thrashed it, as they often did. The prefects, on the other hand, who frankly were much worse than the masters in delivering beatings, all used the word, arse. "Get your pants and underpants down and bend across the back of the chair, boy and let me see your bare arse." That was the mantra repeated by all the prefects as they prepared to thrash some poor sod.

The Headmaster of Frogmore, Mr. Harrington-Smith was relatively new. He had been at the job for only about two years prior to my arrival. He was a young man, in his mid-thirties at a guess, but he was very much of the old school and approved thoroughly of corporal punishment, of which he himself was a regular and accomplished practitioner. In his first year in the post, he had already built up a formidable reputation of being the hardest caner the school had ever known and even hardened offenders such as me, with highly conditioned and resilient arses, trembled at the thought of a visit to his study. I myself was beaten only once by him and I can tell you that his reputation was totally justified; when he had finished with my backside - twelve strokes, no less - my arse was truly on fire; yes, Mr. Harrington-Smith was truly the greatest creator ever of that Frogmore speciality: the well-beaten arse. He particularly insisted whenever possible, in dealing himself with boys who had been caught either smoking or drinking; and if ever the curative properties of the cane were demonstrated it was then; most lads who were beaten by him for either offence never again chanced their luck; once was enough with Mr. Harrington-Smith. After a classic post-beating viewing of a couple of raw-looking backsides, I myself was never tempted to indulge in either sin; one experience with him had been enough for me.

But if I managed successfully to avoid more than one visit to the Headmaster's study, I frequently fell afoul of the prefects, who, a cane-happy lot as they always seemed to be, never missed an opportunity to correct me - or anyone else for that matter. One was regularly corrected rather than beaten; I did however wonder if in using the word correction, the correctors, as I suppose we might as well collectively call them, assuaged their consciences when in fact they really just enjoyed beating a boy's naked backside and any excuse was better than none. But if the person giving the correction is the corrector, what do we call the receiver of his largesse: the correctee? Corrector is word to be found in the Oxford dictionary; correctee, alas not! So although we all understand what it means, correctee is incorrect! The same problem arises as you will see later in this narrative, when I get to my sexual exploits as there seems to be no adequate, proper vocabulary in gay sex to describe the purveyor and the receiver of the sex act.

Anyway, to come back to earth, I was beaten at least once by every Head-boy, not to mention sundry other prefects, from my first year at Frogmore to my entry into the upper sixth. I well remember their names as clear as if it were yesterday: In chronological batting or should I say beating order: Tomlinson, Braithwaite, de Vere, Smythson, Roxby-Cox and the Honourable Jeremy Patterson, whose father was an Earl or some other high-flown aristocrat. I remember particularly well that both he and de Vere had a mean way with the cane and it seemed to me that the higher you got up the social scale, the worse they became. Was it, I wondered, if what one might call the top-tier families, thrashed their male offspring from birth, so that the cane and its regular use became part and parcel of their lives. It certainly seemed like that to me; and it felt like that too, as de Vere and Patterson were both totally unforgiving with the cane; tolerance and mercy were not qualities of which either of them appeared to have heard. And do please remember that all beatings were on the bare; so a well-beaten arse could be said to be emblematic of Frogmore, thereby amply justifying its universally used nickname among us boys: Flogmore. All in all, had such an accolade been given, I guess I might have been named the most beaten arse of the year in most years; but if not every year at the top of the pile, I was always up there with the best of them.

CHAPTER 3

But to progress my story beyond the beatings, I was, I suppose, and average student, with marks somewhere about the average for the class. But I did excel at sport and played rugger throughout my entire school career, finishing up in my final year in the Frogmore Senior XV. They were the side which the school fielded in the All England Public-Schools Rugger competition and it was mark of prestige to be included in the team. I was also a keen gymnast and sent a lot of time training in the gym, which really did pay off in terms of my body, which as I grew towards adulthood, blossomed out into a well proportioned muscular physique of which I was justifiably proud.

It was not until I was eighteen, starting my final year at school, when the male sex hormones started to work their magic on me, that I realised I was more interested in looking at other boys than at girls. By that time my penis was growing apace and pubic hair was sprouting vigorously and the perpetual topic of conversation among my classmates was the other sex, with whom we had precious little contact, stuck out in the sticks as we were, in a boys-only boarding school. It was about then that it hit me in earnest that my growing sexual desires were totally focused on my own sex. Of course, in what passed for the modern and enlightened world in which we then lived, we all had been informed of the facts of life and many of other lads were looking forward to using their cocks (for that was how we now referred to our penises at Frogmore) on the first available female who was willing to take the plunge. In our sex education classes, homosexuality had been mentioned and then immediately swept under the carpet as something we need not bother about as it did not really concern any of us. How on earth did they know? It was just wishful thinking and misguided wishful thinking at that. As all the staff at any boys' boarding school or institution, where boys are taught exclusively by male teachers, knows, the totally male environment is a hotbed breeding-ground for male sex. To pretend otherwise is tantamount to saying black is white! But that is what they tend to do: they either deny that it exists or think that by not talking about it, it is not there.