Francis & Wendy

Wendy was fortunate to have an uncle who was a keen motorsports enthusiast. He had taken Wendy to all sorts of different events from hill-climbing to Formula One. It would to true to say that this had instilled in her a love of cars, a petrolhead in the making maybe. Wendy had been taught to drive on private roads by her uncle and she was already a seasoned driver by the age of fifteen. It came as no big surprise therefore that she obtained her driving licence just a few days after her seventeenth birthday.

As a present for passing her driving test Wendy’s uncle gave her the use of his MG Midget convertible sports car. Wendy understood that such a valuable car from her uncle’s small collection of cars was most definitely not a gift, she was nonetheless thrilled to be able to drive the MG on public roads. Of the cars she had driven while she learnt to drive the little MG was by far her favourite.

This was the car Wendy had driven to Mrs Park’s house for her date with Francis.

In the previous part of this story [Francis & His Sisters - Part 5] we left Wendy wiping Christopher clean after Francis had managed to ejaculate over his fellow Red Indian. It was an accident of course. Francis had hidden himself in a clump of tall bamboo at the bottom of the garden in order to deal with an erection. He stood no chance of concealing his engorged penis as he was wearing nothing more than a tiny piece of buckskin over his private parts. This little flap of leather constituted the whole of the tenderfoot loincloth he was wearing and was itself a major (if somewhat minute) part of his Red Indian play outfit which included a beaded headband replete with colourful feather. The minuscule flap didn’t actually cover his private parts you understand, it was more of a concession to boyhood modesty and not really designed for a boy as old and as well developed as Francis.

As Francis and Christopher left the confines of the house the tiny flap of Francis’ loincloth had been pushed to one side by Francis’ penis as his erection developed. Francis knew that he needed to do something pretty pronto before anyone caught him with his penis upright, at attention and on full display. A quick J. Arthur was the only solution and he headed straight for the bottom of the garden where the shrubbery afforded some privacy.

If it hadn’t been for Christopher’s curiosity Francis might have got away with his stratagem whereby he would ejaculate into the shrubbery and wait until his penis was soft enough to cover with the buckskin... well cover up what he could as best he could. As it was Christopher, who should have been keeping a look out, crept a few steps closer to the clump of bamboo than he should have done. Curiosity getting the better of him, Christopher pulled apart some of the canes to see if he could watch Francis masturbating. Sure enough Christopher saw Francis’ fist as it pumped furiously, whipping up and down the length of the turgid member. But Francis got a scare when he heard the bamboo rustling. He turned, with his fist working on automatic pilot, saw who the intruder was and would have turned back, but the shock startled him enough to trigger an explosive ejaculation just as he had turned to face Christopher.

What the two boys didn’t know was that Wendy had left the house and was in the garden in time to see what Francis and Christopher were up to. When she realised, and saw the evidence, Wendy must have thought all her birthdays had come at once. She was sensible enough to keep her feelings to herself. Sizing up the situation and realising how embarrassed Francis would be, she decided to tell the boys the ‘incident’ was strictly between the three of them.

As Wendy suspected, Francis was deeply embarrassed. Wendy was the girl of his dreams. He was angry with himself for what had happened. It wasn’t Christopher’s fault that he got sprayed with cum. It was his own fault for having no self control. Wearing the stupid little tenderfoot costume didn’t help of course and he still didn’t understand his mixed feelings toward it. Francis admitted to himself that Wendy would have every reason to go home and forget about him. Who, he wondered, would want to go out with a boy who dressed  up in such childish outfits, a boy who played Cowboys and Indians with younger boys like Christopher? No, Francis was positive Wendy wouldn’t understand. As he watched her clean up Christopher, he was sure she wouldn’t understand, but, however much it might hurt, he had to know for sure where he stood.

“Er, Wendy…” Francis began nervously. Wendy turned to look at him. “... have we er, still got a date?”

Wendy smiled: “Of course we have. Why would you think otherwise?”

Francis was relieved, but couldn’t bring himself to look Wendy in the eye as he replied: “I… I just thought that… er, maybe… after… you know…” Francis nodded in Christopher’s direction, “Er, that… stuff… I thought that… y’know…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Wendy said cheerfully, “I told you, that’s between you, me and Christopher…” she paused briefly before adding, “I understand boys... look Francis, sometimes boys get over excited. You can’t help it… it’s natural… I’m okay with it, really I am.”

Francis could hardly believe what he’d just heard: “Are… are you sure… really?”

“Of course I am... I wouldn’t say I was if I wasn’t,” Wendy replied, “I told you how much I liked you… it’s true… now come on let’s go for a drive and forget what’s happened… we can drop off Christopher on the way.”

“A drive!” Francis was stunned.

“Sure… my uncle has lent me a car…” Wendy could see Francis still didn’t understand, “Didn’t you know I’d passed my driving test?”

Francis shook his head and Wendy took hold of his hand as she began to walk towards the house.

“Come on, Francis, it’ll be fun... Christopher!” Wendy called as she held out her other hand for Christopher to hold. “My two brave Red Indian Braves!”

“What have you decided to do?” Mrs Park asked as they re-entered the house.

“Wendy’s got a car and she’s taking us for a spin… we’re dropping Christopher at Mrs Harper’s on the way,” Francis replied with the sort of breathless enthusiasm of a boy half his age.

“That’ll be nice…” Francis’ mother replied.

“It’s my uncle’s car, Mrs Park... I promised I’d only be out for a couple of hours… uncle wants to show it to one of his friends later,” Wendy explained.

“You’d better get a move on then…” 

Francis turned to leave the room: “I’ll just nip upstairs and change…”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s time for that, Francis. You heard Wendy… she’s only got the car for an hour or two,” his mum said stopping Francis in his tracks.

“You’re right, Mrs Park,” Wendy agreed, “We haven’t got much time, Francis... don’t worry about your costume, you’ll be safe in the car.”

Francis looked from Wendy to his mother and back again. He really, really wanted to go on his date… but wearing nothing but his Red Indian outfit, his tenderfoot Red Indian outfit… he wasn’t so sure.

Wendy took his hand again and squeezed it gently.

“It’ll be all right, Francis…” she promised.

In her wildest dream Wendy never imagined going on a date with Francis with him wearing the skimpiest, utterly ridiculous and revealing costume. Outwardly she was perfectly composed and sensible, agreeing with Mrs Park how it would do Francis the world of good to get out and about a bit more. Having the use of her uncle’s car meant she could take Francis to all sorts of places. Did Wendy imagine it, or did Mrs Park wink at her as much to say, ‘yes, wearing that costume’? 

Wendy didn’t disguise the fact that she was looking at Francis’ costume once more, from his moccasins, beaded anklets and bracelets, armbands and headband with its long, brightly coloured feather and of course the tiny flap of buckskin hanging from a cord tied around Francis’ hips. All he needs is some war-paint, Wendy thought. She led him out of the house and down the driveway. Christopher followed.

It hardly needs a genius to realise how nervous Francis was as he meekly allowed Wendy to lead him away from the safety of the house. He had waited so long for his date with Wendy that he couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. Francis knew that he could have dragged his heels and insisted he change out of the absurdly revealing Red Indian outfit, but that ploy, he felt sure, would have courted disaster. Wendy could have left him and he knew he’d never have another opportunity to date her. But it was still crazy to leave the house dressed in a little boy’s outfit. Francis felt the single thin strip of soft leather between his legs... the tiny flap that didn’t even cover his boyhood properly. So, he wondered, how bad would it be? After all he’d be sitting in the car. No one was going to see what he was wearing and if anyone was nosy enough to peer into the car, they’d surely think he’d just taken off his T-shirt. It’d be okay, Francis told himself. They were going for a drive. He was going to stay in the car. What could possibly go wrong?

At the end of the drive Wendy suddenly had an idea and stepped behind Francis. She reached up and covered his eyes with her hands.

“Whoa! What’s this for?” Francis asked. He was feeling vulnerable enough without Wendy playing tricks on him.

“Oh, don’t be such softie… I want it to be a surprise, that’s all,” Wendy said as she turned to Christopher, quickly took one hand away from Francis’ head and, putting a finger to her lips, gestured to him to keep quiet.

They moved out out onto the pavement. The little yellow convertible MG Midget, with its top down, sparkled in the sun. Wendy’s uncle took pride in keeping the car in tip-top condition.

Christopher couldn’t help himself and gasped when he realised this was Wendy’s car. Whether this was from excitement of the opportunity to ride in a sports car, or whether he was shocked they would be riding in an open-top car… maybe a bit of both, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Francis was going to make of it!

Wendy slid her hands away from Francis’ head.

“What do you think? It’s my favourite car… the best one ever. Do you like it? Say you like it.” Wendy said earnestly, betraying no sign of any other motive other than her eagerness to please Francis.

Wendy hands rested on Francis’ hips as she stood behind him. Francis focussed on the open-topped car in front of him, his mouth fell open and his eyes grew wider.

“It’s really kind of uncle to lend me the MG… it really is my favourite,” Wendy said as she squeezed Francis excitedly, “It’s great fun to drive…”

Of course Francis wasn’t really bothered about whether the MG was fun to drive or not, all he was concerned about was sitting in an open-topped sports car and being driven about wearing a kid’s Red Indian outfit that hardly covered his nob never mind his balls.

Christopher, however, thought differently. Maybe it was because he had a bit more experience of life with little or no clothes, but for now he looked at the car and uttered one word, “Cool…”

“You’ll have to squeeze in the back somehow, Christopher… the MG’s only designed for two…” Wendy apologised.

Christopher wasn’t at all worried and leapt in behind the passenger seat, happily sitting sideways with his knees up, “Oh, this is so cool…”

Wendy walked round to the driver’s side, “Come on, Francis, get in,” she called.

Even at this late stage Francis fought the urge to run back into the house, but he knew he’d never live it down if he did. For heaven’s sake, he told himself, Christopher couldn’t get in the car quick rough… at least he’s enjoying it. Then if I did go back I’d never get another chance to date Wendy… mum would give me a bollocking and that would be nothing to the teasing I’d get from Sarah and Sam… No, I’d never live it down.

Francis reached out, gripped the door handle, pressed the catch and pulled the door open. Carefully he slipped into the seat and Wendy started the car and put it into gear. She briefly patted Francis on his bare thigh and they were off…

“Just got to stop and get some petrol, then we’ll drop Christopher off…” Wendy said breezily.

“Oh, do you have to… can’t I come for a ride?” Christopher shouted for the back against the wind noise.

Francis couldn’t decide whether to fold his arms or to keep his hands pressed between his legs. He felt extremely vulnerable sat in the open-top MG. Christopher, on the other hand, was enjoying every second of the drive.

Wendy could see out of the corner of her eye that Francis was tense: “Relax, Francis… I’m a very careful driver,” she said even though she knew it wasn’t her driving Francis was worried about.

“It’s not that, Wendy,” Francis replied, “It’s this… well, if you must know it’s this Red Indian outfit…” he blurted out.

“What? Oh, don’t worry about that,” Wendy said cheerfully, “I’m not bothered about that at all… Oh, you’re not shy, are you?” she asked as if it had only just occurred to her. “There’s really no need to be… not on my account.” Then she took her left hand off the steering wheel and gently patted Francis on his right thigh before taking hold of the gear stick to change down as she steered the little MG round a corner.

Francis was in no doubt about Wendy’s sincerity. She is being really nice and trying hard to help, he thought, but she doesn’t realise how embarrassing it is to wear this costume. I’m not shy… not normally anyway, it’s just this silly outfit. I mean my outfit was bad enough, but being made to swap with Christopher for this tiny tenderfoot loincloth was awful. Francis sighed. Wendy was being so understanding...

“I’m just going to pull in here for some petrol,” Wendy said as she steered the MG into a petrol station, “You stay there…” she added as she stepped out of the car just as an attendant crossed the forecourt towards them. The badge she wore said that her name was Jill.

When she saw the boys wearing headbands with brightly coloured feathers, the attendant Jill couldn’t help but be curious.

“You boys off to the fancy dress party too?” Jill said as she unscrewed the filler cap at the back of the MG.

“... the fancy dress party?” Wendy asked.

“Yes, there were a couple of boys… no, three actually, not five minutes ago dressed in the most adorable little lederhosen outfits of all things,” Jill explained, “Quite a sight… and when one of the boys got out of the car… well you should have see him… very cute,” she said and winked at Wendy. “Little leather micro-shorts… he had lovely smooth legs... how much petrol?”

“Oh, just a gallon… that should be enough,” Wendy answered, “I wonder where they were off to… did they say?” she turned and said to Francis over her shoulder, “Francis, could you pass me my purse, it’s in the glove compartment.”

Francis found Wendy’s purse and held it out, stretching sideways over to the driver’s door, but Wendy had turned back towards the attendant.

“I wonder if it’s anyone we know?” Wendy pondered.

“I’d be a shame for these boys to miss it… all dressed up like real Red… oh, my!” the Jill gasped when she saw that Francis’ bottom was quite bare, for he was now leaning across the space between the two seats trying to get Wendy’s attention.

Christopher giggled as Francis, realising what the attendant had seen, shot back into the passenger seat.

“It’s a tenderfoot loincloth,” Christopher, feeling an explanation was called for, decided to tell the attendant, “Tenderfoots aren’t allowed a flap at the back…” he giggled again at Francis’ evident embarrassment. “It’s mine really, but Francis wanted to try it on…”

“I didn’t… mum made me,” Francis hissed.

“Did too!” Christopher insisted.

“Didn’t…” Francis said almost whispering his response.

“Boys, boys! There’s only one way to settle this,” Jill announced. She’d finished filling the MG and had replaced the filler cap. She walked round to the passenger side of the car and looked down at Francis who sat with his hands squeezed between his legs again.

“Let’s see what’s so special about this tenderfoot loincloth that you were so keen to try on… come on, it can’t be any worse than the lederhosen I saw those boys wearing,” she said.

Christopher couldn’t help but snigger, “‘Tis too… you wait ‘til you see it.”

Francis twisted his head round to face Christopher: “Shut up!” he snapped.

Wendy meanwhile was smiling at the little contretemps between the boys. It was always funny to see boys squabbling, usually over the most trivial of things.

Christopher decided to put Francis to the test. To the amusement of both Jill and Wendy he challenged Francis to let the attendant compare his outfit with his own.

“Don’t be stupid!” was Francis’ curt response.

“Chicken!” was Christopher’s answer.

“No I’m not chicken!”

“Okay, I dare you then!” Christopher challenged Francis.

Christopher debouched from the tight confines of the back of the MG and climbed out onto the forecourt of the petrol station. Francis, embarrassed beyond belief, stayed sat resolutely in the passenger seat of the sports car.

The attendant studied Christopher’s outfit: “Hmm, looks like I was wrong… your Red Indian outfit is certainly more, er, revealing than those little leather shorts the other boys were wearing.”

Christopher turned around so the attendant could see the rear flap of his costume.

“It’s a bit on the small side,” Jill said on seeing the tiny flap that really hardly covered much of Christopher’s well rounded bottom.

“Yeah, but it’s more than the tenderfoot…” Christopher started to say before he was interrupted by Francis again telling him to shut up.

“Don’t be like that, Francis,” Wendy said, “Christopher’s only trying to be helpful.”

Francis pouted like a little boy.

“You’re not going to let Christopher win, are you?” Wendy added.

Francis looked up at her: “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you don’t do the dare, surely Christopher is entitled to make you do a forfeit?” Wendy explained, although she really had no idea of the rules boys had for challenges like dares.

“Like what?” Francis asked nervously. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.

“Could be anything, I suppose… that’d be up to Christopher,” Wendy said vaguely.

It was enough to frighten Francis into action and he slowly opened the car door. Cautiously he put his left leg out and then twisted himself round and put his right leg out. It was enough for Jill to see why Francis wanted to stay in the car, since she could now see just how small the front flap of his Red Indian costume was. She gasped. It was tiny! It didn’t even properly cover his penis and she could clearly see his pump balls squashed between his thighs.

Francis gripped the dashboard with one hand and the back of the passenger seat with the other and slowly eased himself out of the relatively safe confines of the MG.

Francis stood up straight, then looked down and made an attempt to adjust the little flap, but to little effect since he was too well developed for a tenderfoot loincloth to afford him any degree of respectability.

Jill put her hand to her chin as if in thought. “Well?” she said and Francis knew what was required. He shuffled round so that he back was towards the attendant. Christopher moved to stand next to Francis.

“Oh, that’s just so cute!” the attendant cooed as she assessed the sight before her. One totally bare bottom, that of Francis and one very nearly bare bottom, that of Christopher. Jill looked up at Wendy, “I’ve just got to take a picture of them… do you mind? I took a couple snaps of the boys in their lederhosen,” she added as if this justified her taking a few photos of Francis and Christopher as well.

“I don’t see why not,” Wendy answered magnanimously, completely ignoring Francis whose mouth fell open at this further indignity. Christopher wasn’t that bothered as he was of the opinion that anything which caused Francis further embarrassment was funny and anyhow he deserved to be embarrassed for not doing the dare straightaway.

“... besides, where’s the harm in a few photos?” Wendy added as Jill went to fetch her camera from her office.

Francis took the opportunity to appeal to Wendy: “Can’t we just go for this drive? You don’t know what it’s like standing here…”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Francis… look, Christopher isn’t bothered,” Wendy pointed out cheerfully as she made light of Francis’ predicament.

A few moments later Jill came back from her booth with her camera. She quickly arranged the boys in front of the MG and took a few photos before calling over for Wendy to join them.

“... that’s it… you stand between them… put your arms over their shoulders… now smile all of you…”

Then Wendy had an idea: “How about you take one as if these frightening Red Indians were trying to capture me?”

What Wendy meant was that the boys, who up to that point had been posed facing the attendant’s camera, would now have to turn and face Wendy.

“What a great idea!” Jill said as she snapped away taking some memorable shots of Christopher’s and Francis’ bottoms.

Everyone was having so much fun… everyone except Francis of course. So much fun they almost didn’t notice another car when it pulled into the garage.

A woman leaned out of the driver’s window and Jill, with her camera in hand, went over to see what her customer wanted.

“Are those boys going to the fancy dress party as well?” the lady asked.

Jill noticed a boy sat in the back seat next to a girl wearing an elaborate party frock. The boy, however was wearing a snorkel and diving mask… and very little else as far as Jill could see.

The lady saw where Jill was looking and laughed: “My son Peter… he’s going as a diver. His sister Rosy, she’s going too…”

“I’m a milkmaid,” Rosy informed her and lifting a small pail from the floor of the car.

“Is Peter wearing flippers?” Jill asked and for a reply Rosy put the pail down and lifted one of her brother’s legs up. Yes, Peter was wearing flippers

“Well I never!” Jill said and turned to speak to their mother, “Would Peter and Rosy like to come and meet the Red Indians? I’d love to take some pictures of them all together.”

“That’s a lovely idea… Rosy, help Peter out of the car and go and join the boys over there,” mum told the children, then added to Jill by way of explanation, “Peter needs a bit of assistance… those flippers are a bit of a hindrance, but they’re part of Peter’s costume.”

Jill watched as Rosy got out of the car and walked round to help her brother out. The flippers were rather large and made walking difficult for the young boy who looked to Jill to be about the same age as Christopher, but if the flippers were oversized, Peter’s speedo swim trunks were minute!

“Rosy found them in Peter’s room,” mum explained, “I don’t know why he kept them. Peter hasn’t worn them since he was ten. Rosy insisted he wear them for the party.”

They laughed as they watched Peter making his way slowly across the forecourt lifting each flipper clear of the ground and then down again with a sharp smack.

“I’m surprised he managed to squeeze into those swim trunks,” Jill commented as she watched Peter flip flop his way over towards Christopher and Francis, “It must have been an almighty struggle...” 

“It was,” Peter’s mother informed Jill, “We both had to help him…”

“Gosh… you and Rosy? I bet he wasn’t very happy about that,” Jill said with a smirk.

Wendy watched as Peter walked laboriously towards Francis, Christopher and herself. She clapped and applauded: “Well done!” She too couldn’t help but notice the tiny speedos that Peter was wearing.

Wendy turned to Francis: “We really ought to go to the fancy dress party…”

Christopher thought it was a great idea. Francis wasn’t in the least bit enthusiastic.

“Go on, Francis… it’ll be fun,” Wendy said trying to cheer him up.

“But we can’t go if we haven’t been invited,” Francis said firmly as if he was using his ‘get out of jail’ card.

“Let’s go and ask the lady in the car. She must know if it would be alright,” Wendy said and took Francis by the hand. Wendy tugged Francis and urged him to ‘come on’, so Francis was made to walk across the forecourt, away from the comparative safety of the MG.

“Cor… I thought my stupid old swim trunks were small enough,” Peter confided in Christopher, “but your Red Indian outfits are tiny!” He pointed towards Francis’ loincloth, “Crikey... you can see his nob and everything… Phew, I’m glad it’s not me.”

“You better watch out you don’t run into Ben Harper then,” Christopher replied.

“Who’s Ben Harper?” Peter asked.

Christopher took great delight in telling Peter all about Ben and his games of Cowboys and Indians and brought him up to date with the difference between a tenderfoot loincloth and that of an Indian brave.

“Actually I should be wearing a tenderfoot loincloth,” Christopher explained, feeling superior in his knowledge of matters pertaining to games of Cowboys and Indians when it had become clear that Peter hadn’t a clue as to what was involved, “But Francis’ mum made him swap with me, so…”

“You mean he… he’s not wearing anything behind…” Peter gasped.

“Look see… nothing at all,” Christopher said as he pointed towards Francis’ bare bottom, “I told you, there’s no flap at the back of a tenderfoot loincloth…” Then he leant forward towards Peter to add in a whisper, “Betcha can’t guess how old he is.”

Peter shook his head: “Dunno… thirteen… fourteen, maybe…”

“He’s nearly seventeen…” Christopher informed him.

“Never…” Peter couldn’t believe what Christopher had told him, “But he hasn’t got any hairs. That loincloth thingy is so small… you can see he hasn’t got any nob-hairs at all… He can’t be that old.”

“That’s because he was scalped by the cowboys…”

“Blimey…” Peter was gobsmacked. Then a thought occurred to him. “What’s he doing running about like that at his age?”

Peter made it sound as though Francis was nearer seventy than seventeen, but he undoubtedly had a point.

“Long story,” Christopher replied, “but I gather his mum thought he was spending too much time in his bedroom… alone… capiche?” 

Peter giggled: “What? Doing it?” He curled his fist and made a slight jerking movement to show he understood.

“Yup… he did it in the garden not half and hour ago…”

“You see him doing it?” Peter asked.

“More than that…”

“Whad’ya mean?” Peter was transfixed.

“He spunked up and it squirted over me… He didn’t mean to,” Christopher explained, then added magnanimously, “My fault really… I shouldn’t have got too close…”

“Wow…” was all Peter could think to say. He’d never seen an older boy wanking before. In fact he wasn’t even sure older boys did it, so it came as a surprise to find out that Francis did. He felt quite envious of Christopher for having been able watch Francis at it, but he wasn’t too sure about being squirted over.

Meanwhile Francis was feeling particularly nervous standing next to Wendy in front of the car belonging to the mother of Peter and Rosy.

“Hello, I’m Wendy and this is Francis,” Wendy introduced themselves.

“Pleased to meet you. My name’s Lake… Mildred Lake,” came the reply.

Wendy leaned in towards Mildred, out of earshot of Francis who, anyway was too busy looking round nervously to hear anything said. “Actually it’s our first date… Francis and me,” she whispered.

“How on earth did you get him to wear that fancy dress costume? You’re a very lucky girl to persuade an attractive boy to come to the party dressed like that…”

“Well, that’s the thing… we weren’t actually going to the party,” Wendy explained, “Francis dresses up to play Cowboys and Indians…”

Mildred couldn’t control herself and burst out laughing: “You’re kidding…”

Wendy glanced at Francis. He was still far too worried about being seen to have heard Mrs Lake’s laughter.

“Some boys never grow up,” Mildred Lake told Wendy, “Although I think you already know that…”

“Do you think they’ll let us into the party?” Wendy asked.

“Wearing those costumes? No problem. You follow me and I’ll make sure you all get in,” Mildred Lake replied.

 

Story Index

The P.E. Club - Part 4

“Ricky! What have you been up to?!” Mrs Livesey exclaimed when she saw the state Ricky was in, “You knew you had an important visitor… I told you about Robert… how he might help you join the P.E. Club… and yet look at you! What on earth is he going to think?”

I have to admit Ricky did look remarkably disheveled. His school shoes were scuffed. One sock was at half-mast, the other pushed all the way down to his ankle. Ricky’s knees looked as if he’d been shuffling about in muddy grass and his legs were filthy. The grass stains extended to his school shorts and blazer. It will be no surprise to learn how his shirt was completely untucked from his trousers and that his school tie was almost totally undone. His school cap was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs Livesey was appalled and, while I stood to one side, carried on in much the same way my own mother would have done under similar circumstances. Ricky was in a mess and by the look on his face he knew he was in serious trouble. He kept glancing nervously between me and his mum.

As usual in these situations it was a waste of time trying to find out how Ricky managed to get into such a state. The damage had been done and Ricky knew there was a price to pay.

“Look how smart Robert is,” Mrs Livesey said as she pressed a hand on top of Ricky’s head, directing it towards me. “That’s a boy who takes pride in his appearance… look… Robert hasn’t got grass stains on his legs, has he, Ricky?”

“No, mum…” Ricky replied. There was a quizzical look on his face as though something had just dawned on him.

“Robert’s clothes are nice and clean… aren’t they, Ricky?”

“Yes, mum... “ Ricky looked earnestly at his mother. “Mum… why’s he wearing short trousers?”

“Because it’s part of the uniform he’s been given to wear by the P.E. Club,” mum answered, “... and he’s proud to wear short trousers, unlike some little boys I could mention… besides, it’s an honour for him to wear them… isn’t it, Robert?”

“Of course it is, Ricky,” I said smiling. What else could I say? I could hardly tell Mrs Livesey I felt ridiculous standing in her kitchen in the shortest pair of short trousers it had ever been my misfortune to wear.

Despite Ricky’s current situation he wasn’t too afraid to tell us how he couldn’t wait to get some long trousers and that some of his classmates were already in longs… and how he never, ever wanted to wear short trousers again once mum had bought him some longs.

Mrs Livesey looked at me and sighed, “This is just what I was telling you about…”

I looked at Ricky and spoke, “I don’t think mum will be in any hurry to buy you a pair of long trousers, especially when you come home in the state you are now. Mum might decide to keep you in short trousers… my mum made sure I stayed in short trousers until I was much older than you are now. Besides, when you join the P.E. Club you’ll find that all the boys wear short trousers. When you get a bit older, Ricky, you’ll understand…”

“I think it’s about time we got you out of these clothes, Ricky,” Mrs Livesey decided, “… and then we’ll give you a strip wash here in the kitchen…”

“MUM!!” Ricky was outraged.

“I wouldn’t make too much of a fuss young man, because when we’ve got you nice and clean, Robert is going to take you over his knees for a thorough bare bottom spanking… aren’t you Robert?”

To say I was astonished by Mrs Livesey’s words would be an understatement and to be perfectly honest I didn’t believe it was my place to administer Ricky’s spanking, bare bottom or not. But before I could reply, Ricky had a few words to say.

“Not a spanking… please, mum… not in the kitchen… please, mum,”

Mrs Livesey had already started to undress Ricky before he surprised us both by what he said next.

Ricky looked at me coyly and then spoke: “Mum… please not Robert… don’t let Robert spank me…” Mrs Livesey was unbuttoning Ricky’s school shirt, but paused and asked her son what he meant. “Will you spank me instead, mum?”

“Whatever for?” she asked.

Ricky didn’t answer his mum’s question, but repeated himself: “Please, mum… will you spank me?”

Mrs Livesey looked at me quizzically. I shrugged as much to say that I didn’t understand Ricky either. Did he think a spanking from me would be more painful than one from his mum, I thought? Hardly, as I was sure Mrs Livesey would have had far more spanking experience than me. Or maybe Ricky was simply embarrassed by the thought of being spanked by an older boy… who knows? But I wonder if Ricky realised I would be staying in the kitchen whatever happened.

I sat and watched as Mrs Livesey methodically undressed Ricky. Off came his shoes, off came his socks, down came Ricky’s short school trousers, off came his shirt… until Ricky was left standing in his little white underpants. Mrs Livesey moved to pull down her son’s underpants at which Ricky jerked back and grabbed hold of the elastic waistband of the underpants.

“NO!! Please, mum… not… not in front of Robert…” he pleaded and it became apparent that Ricky didn’t want to be seen undressed in front of an older boy.

“Take your hands away, Ricky!” Mrs Livesey snapped. “I don’t think Robert’s going to mind if he sees you with no clothes on… I’m sure he sees lots of bare boys at the P.E. Club,” Mrs Livesey added as she slipped her fingers inside the waistband of Ricky’s underpants. She’d clearly had plenty of practice at this manoeuvre and I watched as she slid her hands around and down over Ricky’s bottom before sweeping her hands back round to his front. Ricky’s bottom was now bare and the front of his underpants had been pulled low enough for me to see the base of his bald penis.

“Stand still, Ricky and let me take your underpants off,” Mrs Livesey said as her son performed a nervous dance in anticipation of of his baring.

I was surprised at Ricky’s modesty. Considering what I’d seen him getting up to in his school’s security video, I would have thought the little matter of being stripped nude in the kitchen wouldn’t have bothered him that much. Or maybe it was the thought of the spanking he was going to get after mum had given him a strip wash.

Ricky’s underpants came down and mum soon had them added to the pile of his school clothes. It was predicable to see Ricky cup his hands between his legs and for the moment Mrs Livesey ignored this as she pulled him towards the sink.

“Robert, I wonder if you could give me some assistance?” Mrs Livesey asked me.

“Certainly…” I replied as I crossed the kitchen.

“Would you grip Ricky’s arms and hold them above his head while I wash his legs?”

Needless to say Ricky struggled, wriggling this way and that until mum gave him a sharp smack on his left thigh.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, Ricky… let mum clean you up,” I advised him as I took hold of his wrists and pulled his arms up high. The usual pleadings of it not being fair were ignored by his mum and I told him that he shouldn’t have got into such a mess in the first place. Mrs Livesey made short work of Ricky’s strip wash. She gave me a towel and told me to dry Ricky. I’d noticed a change in her tone of voice when she addressed me and what she said next took me by surprise:

“... and when you’ve finished doing that you can give Ricky a good spanking on his bare bottom.”

However much I might have enjoyed the thought of taking Ricky over my lap for a spanking I felt that as I was wearing short trousers it was not appropriate for me to do so. I protested that it wasn’t my place to spank Ricky, but Mrs Livesey wouldn’t hear of it.

“You will be Ricky’s supervisor at the P.E. Club. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to ask you to demonstrate to me here and now exactly how you will exert your authority when he misbehaves.” She paused before adding firmly, “… and if I don’t hear Ricky howling and begging to be spared after you’ve been spanking him for five minutes, I will personally show how that is done by giving a practical lesson for you by using your own bare bottom. Do I make myself clear, Robert?”

I told Mrs Livesey that she had made herself perfectly clear and as I sat on one the the kitchen stools, Ricky, looking apprehensive, was made to stand by my right hand side. He rubbed his bottom in nervous anticipation of the spanking he was about to receive. I patted my lap and helped to position Ricky as he leant forwards over my bare thighs.

Mrs Livesey set the kitchen timer and nodded for me to start. I had five minutes to demonstrate my prowess at spanking. If anything I was more nervous than Ricky as I commenced his spanking. His mother watched me with a critical eye as I smacked her son’s bare bottom, but there was no sound from Ricky. Not a peep. It didn’t seem to make any difference how hard I tried spanking him, Ricky stayed resolutely silent.

“Four minutes left…” Mrs Livesey announced.

I spanked Ricky harder. I tried concentrating all my efforts on one spot. I spanked Ricky on his sweet ‘sit-spots’, but still there was not a peep from Ricky.

“Three minutes left…” Mrs Livesey informed me coldly.

Ricky was wriggling and his legs made a series of scissor movements, so I knew my spanking must have been having some effect. At one point Ricky’s right arm shot up as if to protect his bottom. I grabbed the wrist and held it tight against Ricky’s back. I continued to spank Ricky as hard as I was able, but there was still no noise other than the steady smack, smack, smack as my hand made contact with Ricky’ bare bottom.

“Two minutes to go…”

Hearing Mrs Livesey’s voice made me redouble my efforts. Surely Ricky should be yelling his head off by now, I thought. He was wriggling and scissoring his legs even more as my hand smacked the tender red flesh of his bottom… but that didn’t count. As long as Ricky remained silent, I was due for a demonstration from Mrs Livesey of how to make a boy howl, beg and plead using my bottom.

By this time and with this thought uppermost on my mind I was sweating more with fear than the exertion of spanking Ricky.

“One minute left,” said Mrs Livesey.

Still no noise apart from the steady slap of my hand on the reddening bottom of the naked wriggling Ricky.

“Thirty seconds left…”

I was frantic. I couldn’t believe that any bare-bottomed boy could hold out during such a spanking and not yell out. It was only then the penny really dropped. Up to that point I thought that it was simply a battle of wills, but now I realised Ricky was holding out so that he could be rewarded by watching while I had a spanking over his mother’s lap. A spanking she had guaranteed would make me howl and beg of mercy!

No wonder Ricky had kept silent…

“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!”

The kitchen timer sounded and my sore hand came to rest on Ricky’s hot bottom cheeks. I made Ricky stay in position over my lap while I got my breath back in the hope Ricky might make a noise loud enough to exempt me from his mother’s threat to give me a spanking.

A minute passed and it became clear what fate awaited me in Mrs Livesey’s kitchen. Apart from taking a few deep breaths and trying to relieve his scorching bottom by bucking and twisting his hips, Ricky remained stoically silent. I looked up at Mrs Livesey and she signaled me to stand up and face her.

Released from my grip, Ricky jumped up and immediately grabbed hold of his bottom with both hands then commenced a most energetic post-spanking dance around the kitchen. He was no longer at all concerned about his nudity and I couldn’t help but watch as his thighs worked like pistons causing his boys-bits to flap about and slap against his legs.

Ricky was allowed a few minutes to finish his dance before Mrs Livesey told him to stand still and clasp his hands behind his head for his corner-time. He did as he was told and I saw that his eyes were damp and glistening with tears. I wondered how he’d managed to keep from yelling during the spanking I’d given him, but before facing the wall Ricky turned and spoke:

“Please, mum… can I watch… to see how it’s done… a proper spanking, I mean…”

I very nearly grabbed hold of Ricky once more for another spanking. The cheek!! It was obvious what he’d been up to and now he wanted to watch me getting spanked!

Mrs Livesey thought about it for a moment. Ricky must have convinced her that my spanking was not of a standard sufficient for proper discipline as her reply made it clear.

“Yes… Yes, Ricky… you may stand and watch while I give Robert a spanking. It’s quite obvious he needs a lesson in how to administer an effective spanking to a boy’s bare bottom… but be sure to keep your hands at the back of your head, Ricky.”

Now it was my turn to be undressed by Mrs Livesey.

Ricky’s mum was methodical in her work as she first came and stood behind me, reached up to the collar of my jacket and pulled it downwards so that my arms slipped out. Mrs Livesey came back round to face me, handed me my jacket and told me to take it and hang it in the hall. I did as I was told and passed by Ricky who smirked and poked his tongue out at me.

“Ricky!! Do that once more and you’ll be over my knee for a dose of my hairbrush,” his mum warned him.

My heart beat faster as I hung up my jacket and returned to the kitchen to stand in front of Mr Livesey once more. This time she reached up to removed my tie and unbuttoned my shirt and it became clear to me that I was to be completely undressed for my spanking, fully nude, just like Ricky.

Leaving my shirt unbuttoned and open, Mrs Livesey pulled up a chair and sat down. She reached forward and pushed her hands into the waistband of my short trousers. Pulling me forward, she started to tell me how disappointed she was with me; how she’d expected a boy of my age to take his responsibilities more seriously… and so it went on. Every so often I would apologise, desperately ashamed and embarrassed to be standing in the middle of her kitchen while she slowly undressed me.

My little short trousers were unzipped and pulled open. I was conscious of Ricky’ eyes as he watched every step of my disrobing. I felt Mrs Livesey’s fingers as they were pushed up the legs of my ultra brief shorts.

“I hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Robert.”

“Yes, Mrs Livesey,” I mumbled.

She tugged my short trousers, pulling them down over my bottom and they tumbled to my feet.

“Hold up your shirt, Robert… I was so disappointed in you… I really would have expected you to be able to give Ricky such thorough spanking that would have made him beg you to stop… hold your shirt right up, Robert…”

Mrs Livesey brought her fingers up to the waistband of my white schoolboy underpants and I could feel beads of perspiration on my forehead. I knew what was next.

I’ve no doubt that Mrs Livesey had gained a great deal of experience in removing a boy’s underpants over the years. She certainly knew how to deal with the little school regulation underpants that were part of my P.E. Club uniform. Keeping up her scolding of me, she pushed her fingers into the elastic waistband and slowly eased it downwards.

“Honestly, Robert, I’d have thought a boy of your age wouldn’t have had any trouble spanking Ricky…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Livesey,” I apologised as I saw Ricky lean forwards, keen not to miss anything.

“Well, it just wasn’t good enough… was it, Robert?”

“No, Mrs Livesey…”

“When I spank a boy I expect him to make a great deal of noise… I expect him to beg me to stop… I expect him to be bawling… sobbing… crying his eyes out… don’t I, Ricky?”

“Yes, mum…” Ricky replied and by the tone of his voice he was eager to watch his mum in action on my bottom… my bare bottom.

Mrs Livesey had pulled the waistband of my underpants down to the base of my penis… far enough to see that I had no pubic hair and was as bald as Ricky. She made no comment, but merely pushed her hands around the waistband until her fingers were touching the bare flesh of my bottom. Mrs Livesey eased my underpants back down over my bottom and then slid her hands back to my hips and pulled the now stretched elastic waistband further down. My penis was now partially uncovered.

“You see, Robert,” Mrs Livesey continued as if pulling down the underpants of a nineteen year old boy was an everyday event of no consequence, “You see when a boy is spanked, he should be aware of nothing other than his blazing bottom…”

“Yes, Mrs Livesey,” I replied getting more and more anxious by the second. Already I could feel my stomach churning in anticipation of my forthcoming spanking… to say nothing of the imminent lowering of my underpants.

“... that is why I often make use of my hairbrush.”

I gulped. I think Ricky might have been shocked to hear that too.

“... a boy will then promise to be good, promise to do his homework, promise to do his chores properly… promise anything in fact for the spanking to stop…”

I gulped again: “Yes, Mrs Livesey.

“Frankly I’m surprised you didn’t ask to borrow my hairbrush when you spanked Ricky…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Livesey…”

“After all, it was obvious you weren’t able to achieve the desired result with your bare hand after the first minute…”

“I’m really sorry, Mrs Livesey.”

At that precise moment that back door opened and with a loud “Coo-ee!” one of Mrs Livesey’s neighbours entered the kitchen.

“Oh! Am I interrupting anything?” she asked when she saw Ricky standing in the kitchen nude and with his hands clasped behind his head. She must also of course have seen me, a bundle of nerves, standing in front of Mrs Livesey.

“No… not all all, Jill,” Mrs Livesey answered just as if she was in the middle of some tedious household chore, “Come in and take a pew…”

Calmly, without any fuss and without any allowance made for arrival of the unexpected visitor, Mrs Livesey drew my underpants down to my knees. My penis, slightly engorged I’m ashamed to say, once released from the confines of my tight schoolboy underpants, sprung outwards and wobbled in front of her before coming to rest.

“Cor!!” Ricky exclaimed when he saw the result of his mother’s action.

Mrs Livesey looked directly at my now fully exposed genitals. “I grew up with two brothers,” she said, “... and both of them had abundant pubic hair by your age, Robert… Yet I see you have none.”

Ricky couldn’t resist a further exclamation when he realised I was as bald as he was. He was about to say something more when the neighbour spoke.

“I’d keep quiet if I were you, Ricky… By the looks of things you’ve earned one spanking already today.”

I was then obliged to tell Mrs Livesey in front of her neighbour and Ricky, that Doc considered pubic hair on boys to be unhealthy as well as unnecessary and therefore to set an example I had agreed to keep myself smooth and hairless. I can’t tell you how embarrassed I was at that point in the proceedings. Mrs Livesey was having no trouble in cutting me down to size and I felt as if I were not much older than Ricky.

Mrs Livesey left me standing in the middle of the kitchen holding my shirt right up to my shoulders and with my underpants clinging to my knees. My extremely brief short trousers were still in a puddle at my feet.

“Shall I put the kettle on, Jill?” Mrs Livesey asked her neighbour as she crossed the kitchen.

“What a good idea, Helen… are you going to introduce me to this young man?” Jill said as if finding an almost naked teenager in her friend’s kitchen was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“Certainly, Jill. This is Robert… I think I mentioned him to you the other day. He’s the boy who helps run the PE Club that Ricky will be joining to help control that little problem of his we talked about at our coffee morning last week…”

“Oh yes, that little problem… One or two other boys in need of the same treatment were mentioned as I recall… and my Ralph’s no saint either, I can assure you,” Jill said with a smile.

“Ralph’s fourteen now isn’t he?” Mrs Livesey asked her neighbour.

“Yes, but he’s a young fourteen… entre nous, he’s what you might call a late bloomer… a very late bloomer. Poor Ralph’s dreadfully embarrassed about it… even covers his front bits if I catch him when he’s undressed… all a bit silly really, because… well, boys tend to forget their mums have seen everything anyway, so there’s no need to hide their boy things from us just because they’re growing up,” Jill informed us.

“... and you say he’s already… er, doing that thing we were talking about at the coffee morning?” Mrs Livesey said hesitantly, presumably not wanting to talk too openly about masturbation in front of her son, Ricky.

But Jill knew exactly what Mrs Livesey meant: “Oh yes, Helen… although it’s only recently I’ve seen any evidence… just a few spots.”

I began to feel sorry for Ralph having such personal and private matters talked about so freely and with such little concern by his mother. His boy-secrets were now completely out in the open; the subject of his late pubescence common knowledge among others… as well as his habit, that thing boys do, all the mothers were talking about over coffee.

Mrs Livesey turned to her son:” Ricky, if I find out that you’ve been telling anyone else what Aunty Jill has just said about Ralph I’ll give you such a spanking with my hairbrush that you won’t be able to sit down for a week… Do I make myself clear?”

Ricky understood alright. He just had to remember to be very careful how he used this new found knowledge. “Yes, mum… I won’t say a thing…” he replied keeping a straight face.

“I wonder, Jill… while I make the tea… if you wouldn’t mind helping Robert off with the rest of his clothes. He’s been holding up his shirt for a while and his arms must be aching quite a bit now.”

What Mrs Livesey said was true, but I wasn’t sure if the embarrassment of having her neighbour Jill removing the rest of my clothing wasn’t too high a price to pay for the comfort of being able to straighten my arms.

Jill turned out to be just as adept at undressing a boy as Mrs Livesey. All the while she chatted to her friend as she eased my shirt off and then slipped my underpants further down my legs.

“What about his sandals, Helen?” Jill asked.

“He can keep those on for now,” came the reply.

I lifted up each foot in turn so that Jill could remove my short trousers and underpants and stood nude, bar ankle socks and sandals. If anything having these left on made me feel more naked than ever; the socks and sandals on my feet simply drew attention to the lack of any other clothing on my otherwise bare body.

“My, but these short trousers of yours are very short, Robert,” Jill said as she held them up in front of her and examined them, “Was that your choice, to have them so short?”

“No… er, no they’re part of my visiting uniform… for when I’m representing the PE Club,” I replied rather softly as I was deeply embarrassed by the situation in which I’d found myself.

“Well, it’s a brave boy who wears these little shorts… wouldn’t you agree, Helen?”

Mrs Livsesy smiled and said that in her opinion short trousers for boys should always be tailored to allow lots of fresh air to circulate around the boy’s thighs… whatever his age.

“Robert must get lots of fresh air wearing these… there’s hardly any leg to them at all.” Jill turned to me again: “Is that why you were wearing these little schoolboy underpants? They’re the same type as the underpants I buy for Ralph.”

I wondered if my ordeal could get any more embarrassing as I explained why I was wearing a pair of underpants designed to be worn by a fourteen year old schoolboy.

“... and they’re smarter too,” I managed to croak after I explained that any other underwear would be likely to be seen as the legs of my short trousers were, as Jill had pointed out, so very short.

Jill made use of the apron she was wearing to collect and carry my clothes.

“What would you like me to do with Robert’s clothes, Helen?” she asked.

“Oh, put them through on the hall table. Robert can collect them later…”

Those words sounded rather ominous and it looked as if I was to forfeit my clothes for some time, or at least until Mrs Livesey saw fit to allow me to get dressed again. I stood in the kitchen like a nervous, naughty boy about to be spanked. I was now more than ever certain Mrs Livesey was about to show me how a ‘proper’ spanking should be administered.

Jill came back into the kitchen: “Is there anything else for me to do, Helen?” she asked.

“Yes, would you be an angel and fetch my hairbrush… Ricky will show you where it’s kept…”

Ricky couldn’t help himself and whooped with delight at the prospect of seeing me spanked with his mother’s hairbrush. Jill took Ricky by the hand and he led her off to find the hairbrush… well, to be precise, Ricky positively dragged Jill from the room in his eagerness to show her where his mum kept the hairbrush.

“Hands clasped behind your head now, Robert,” Mrs Livesey ordered as Jill and Ricky left the kitchen.

My head was in a whirl. I hadn’t expected any of this to happen. It was embarrassing enough to dress in the PE Club uniform to come and visit Mrs Livesey and to meet with Ricky. I thought that I’d have a chat over a cup of tea and maybe tell Ricky something about the club. But here I was standing practically nude in Mrs Livesey’s kitchen waiting to be spanked by her with a hairbrush while Jill, a neighbour, and Ricky watched. Not only that, but I was to be spanked until I was bawling and pleading to be spared, while I was no doubt blubbing as tears and snot ran down my face. Yes, I knew only too well what the effects of a well-aimed hairbrush could be on a boy’s defenceless bare bottom. The purpose of this was to demonstrate what Mrs Livesey considered to be a ‘proper’ spanking… the type of spanking I’d failed to give her son Ricky.

Robert and the Junior Prefects

This story follows on from two earlier stories ‘A Visit to the School Outfitters’, which can be found here and ‘Robert and the Summer Haircut’, which can be found here. The ‘Robert’ of the ‘P.E. Club’ stories was not intended to be the same ‘Robert’ who features in these stories. I wrote the earlier ‘Robert’ stories a while ago and the character was aged about fourteen/fifteen. When I came to write the P.E. Club I’d totally forgotten I’d used the name Robert before (lack of imagination on my part), but, given that ‘Robert’ of the P.E Club is nineteen, they could, I suppose, be regarded as being one in the same character. Dear reader, I leave it up to you.


My fifteenth birthday had come and gone and there was still no sign of my being allowed to wear my longs. My heart was set on gaining this privilege and I would often drift off to sleep with the fanciful notion that when I awoke in the morning I would find that mum had put out my long trousers for me to wear to school.

But after mum had bought me the hideous short trouser suit, I’d sort of resigned myself to being required to wear short trousers for church and formal occasions, also for visiting family friends and relations. I also knew there would be little chance of wearing anything other than my short trouser suit for outings, such as to concerts, art galleries and museums. However, being kept dressed in short trousers for school, now that I was fifteen years old, was something I knew I’d never get used to. All through the preceding year in the Third Form I’d looked forward to the special feeling of pride that comes from wearing your first pair of long trousers. I yearned to feel the material of my long trousers as it brushed against the whole length of my legs. But most of all I longed to be dressed like my fellow Fourth Form schoolboys, sent to school wearing proper long trousers..

I’m sure… no, I’m certain it was my stupidity over what I now thought of as ‘the affair of the summer haircut’ that had put paid to the appearance of long trousers on school mornings. When I cast my mind back to my visit with mum to the school outfitter, her words come back to me just as if she was standing right next to me: “As a special present for my son’s fifteenth birthday Robert has been given his first pair of long trousers which he will be permitted to wear to school provided he behaves himself…”

Mum proved she was nothing if not a woman of her word and, of course, I should have known better than to be so foolish about my summer haircut.

Two days before the first term of the new school year I was taken to Mr Fenner, the barber, for my ‘back-to-school’ haircut. Mum wasn’t going to trust me to go to Mr Fenner’s on my own any more, so I had to stand in the shop while she gave her instructions as to her exact requirements. This term it seemed as if my school haircut was to be shorter than ever. Needless to say mum and I were not alone in the barber’s and I couldn’t help squirming with embarrassment while a couple junior boys (wearing long trousers of course!) poked fun at me behind mum’s back. I wasn’t sure, but these two boys looked familiar and when they started whispering to each other and I heard words such as ‘girlylegs’ and ‘shorty-shorts’, I was sure these were the same two boys who had witnessed my excruciating humiliation on the day of my summer haircut.

Mum then said she had some shopping to do, but that I was to stay with Mr Fenner until her return as she ‘didn’t want a repeat of the summer haircut episode’. She then told me, in front of the two junior boys, that I was to behave myself and not make a fuss or it would be early bedtimes again. And then she said something that made me cringe with embarrassment… why did she have to say it in front of Mr Fenner and the junior boys?

“I do hope I’m not going to have to put your special mittens on you before bedtime again, Robert…”

I gulped, more red-faced than ever. I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t think the two fresh-faced junior boys knew what special mittens were for, but I was certain Mr Fenner did.

“No, mummy…” I managed to reply.

It was just the sort of hideously embarrassing remark mum would come out with at the most inappropriate times.

Then, with a cheery few words to Mr Fenner, telling him not to put up with any nonsense from me and that she’d be back to collect me later, she went off to do her shopping.

Thankfully for me the junior boys were given their haircuts while I waited. I sat down, my thighs bare to the very tops of my legs (I was wearing full school uniform even through school hadn’t started) and picked up one of Mr Fenner’s dog-eared magazines from the pile on the table next to the wooden bench upon which I sat. I didn’t make any effort to read ‘Practical Car Mechanics’, or whatever the magazine was, as I was more interested to see what sort of haircut these two junior boys were going to get.

Neither boy was in Mr Fenner’s chair for more than a couple of minutes... well that’s what it seemed to me. My mouth fell open when, after a most cursory use of his scissors and comb to snip off any loose ends of the boy’s hair, the boy was actually asked if he’d like a dollop of the foul smelling preparation that Mr Fenner always slathered on my head after finishing my short-back-and-sides haircut as a matter of course… I never got asked!

“Not today, Mr Fenner, thank you.” The first boy replied, his hair looking tidier, but to my mind not much different from when he first sat down in the barber’s chair.

And that was another thing… both boys actually sat on the seat of Mr Fenner’s chair! Not for them the humiliation of the wooden board placed across the chair arms. Not for them the indignity of being treated like a little child. They were junior boys at least two years younger than I was, but when my turn came, Mr Fenner reached for the child’s seat without a second thought and I was made to sit on the hard wooden plank like a six year old.

No prizes for guessing why. It was because I was still in short trousers. The junior boys both wore longs and therefore had privileges that I didn’t. It was another example of the distinction between boys who wore longs and those, like me, who were kept in short trousers. Is it any wonder that I dreamt of the day when I’d be allowed to wear longs?

I need hardly add that in spite of my already short hair, I was kept on Mr Fenner’s wooden plank for a long time, a considerably longer time than the whole time both junior boys were sat in the chair, while Mr Fenner worked away diligently with his clippers, comb and scissors to make sure that no hair on my head was out of place.

With my hair even shorter than before I was brushed down by Mr Fenner as he removed the apron. The brush tickled the nape of my neck which was totally bereft of hair and I was given permission to stand up. A few more loose hairs were brushed from my shoulders and front of my blazer.

“Back to school in short trousers again eh, Robert?” Mr Fenner said as he looked down at my bare legs.

“Yes, sir… Mr Fenner,” I replied and when he enquired I told him I’d be in the Fourth Form when I went back to school.

“There can’t be many boys in the Fourth Form who wear short trousers to school these days,” Mr Fenner observed.

“No, Mr Fenner,” I replied, “I think I’ll be the only one.”

Just then mum came back laden with the fruits of her shopping expedition. To her enquiry Mr Fenner assured her that I’d been a good boy and behaved myself. I felt like I was ten years old again.



My mother was singular in her belief that ‘standards’ were slipping. Everywhere she saw shoddy clothes and shoddy behavior. No trip to the shops could be undertaken without her seeing ‘the thin end of the wedge’ or the ‘end of civilisation’ evinced in the sight of sloppily dressed youths involved in ‘disgraceful’ behavior such as smoking or, heaven forbid, snogging in public.

I say this so you will understand how mother had decided that I, her fifteen year old son, would be presented to the world as a standard-bearer, an exemplar of correct dress, in the vanguard of her fight against all that she found so abhorrent in the modern world. In other words there was little hope that I would be returning to school in September wearing anything but my short school trousers.

Boys were allowed to wear long trousers to school when they entered the Third Form. Longs were optional and could only be worn with the written consent of one of the boy’s parents or a guardian. In practice a simple pro-forma letter was sent to the parents of pupils during the summer holiday requesting a straightforward yes or no answer as to whether the boy was permitted to wear long trousers. This of course ensured that any boy such as myself who had been kept in short trousers could not cheat and change into longs on the way to school.

The beginning of my Third Year found a few boys like myself dressed in short trousers, but when we returned after the Christmas holiday there were just two other boys in short trousers. Even before the Easter holidays one and then the other boy came to school proudly sporting their brand new longs. There was only one boy in the class left wearing short trousers to school… me.

So there I was, due to enter the Fourth Form in September and, as I explained, it had come as no surprise to find myself sent to school still wearing short trousers. However, matters were made worse due to the fact that a pair of my hard-wearing school shorts, which had seen service since the beginning of Second Form when I was twelve, had been put out for me to wear while two pairs of newly purchased short school trousers had been sent for ‘alterations’.

“I’m having some alterations done to your school trousers,” mum would say periodically.

She hardly ever called them ‘school shorts’, or even bothered to tell me the ‘alterations’ meant they were to be shortened. Mum liked my short trousers to be just that, short. Again, she hardly ever referred to my short trousers as being anything other than ‘healthy’ or ‘smart’. Maybe it was by the use of such descriptions she was able to justify sending me to school, or taking me on outings, dressed in such eye-wateringly brief short trousers that the lower curves of my bottom were often visible. It may have been healthy to have my legs bare from ankle to the very top of my thighs, but it was deeply embarrassing for me, a situation not helped by my smooth, unblemished, hairless legs.

So when I found I was to wear school shorts that had been bought for me the best part of three whole years ago, I nearly fainted. Wearing these shorts I knew I’d be in for taunts, jeers, insults and catcalls from boys of all years, to say nothing of what I might expect to hear on my journeys to and from school on public transport. But these were minor concerns compared to what I was up against at the hands of the Junior Prefects.

Junior Prefects were boys who’d been selected from the Second Form to keep order among First and Second Form boys. To acknowledge their authority and to act as a visible sign of this, Junior Prefects wore long trousers unlike other boys in the First and Second Years who of course all wore short trousers. One of the main roles of these prefects was to look after new boys and to make sure they knew the various important school rules and regulations together with the school jargon as well as making sure new boys knew their way around.

This system also had the added benefit of teaching boys chosen to be Junior Prefects the character-building attributes of self-confidence and self- reliance. In practice this meant that a lot of day-to-day matters considered trivial by the school authorities were delegated to the Junior Prefects.

Although the Junior Prefects’ remit concerned boys aged between eleven and twelve in the first two forms of the school, there were exceptions and one of those exceptions concerned me.

Junior Prefects responsibilities included ensuring boys were complying with school uniform regulations, in particular those regulations which were concerned with short school trousers. Woe betide the First or Second Former caught wearing long trousers! However, there were a number of uniform regulations that applied specifically to short trousers such as the maximum permitted leg length and, depending upon the time of year, the type of material from which they were made, or whether the short trousers were lined or not. Regulations even extended to the type of underpants which were permitted to be worn with each type of short trouser.

I can remember as if it were yesterday when the headmaster addressed us, as he did with each new intake of boy, on the subject of our school uniform: “These rules and regulations regarding your new uniform may seem daunting. Some of you may think these rules to be irrelevant and outdated… antiquated even, but I can assure you they are not. These rules are in place for a single, simple purpose, a purpose that all of you will come to acknowledge… pride… pride in your work… pride in your achievements… and pride in your school uniform…”

“There are a number of boys I see before me today who are no doubt wondering why they are back in short trousers… yes, I can see the pale, white legs of boys who have been used to wearing long trousers… indeed, so dazzling white are their legs that I regret leaving home without my sunglasses!” This ‘joke’ of the headmaster’s, which he told every year, always caused giggles and laughter among the new boys sat cross-legged on the floor of the assembly hall. The laughter was always followed by the turning of heads to see who had the whitest legs… they usually belonged to the boy with the reddest face...

“In your new school,” the headmaster would continue, “the wearing of long trousers is a privilege, a privilege that will only be granted to each of you when you enter the Third Form, two years from now. That may seem a long time to wait for you pale-legged boys, but if you knuckle down and get on with your schoolwork, do your best in the classroom and on the sports field, keep a smile on your face and keep out of trouble those months will soon fly by and before you know it you’ll have the privilege of wearing long trousers to school.”

What the headmaster failed to mention was the privilege of long trousers was contingent on parental approval and that until this approval was gained the unfortunate boy kept in short trousers, whatever his age, was subject to the authority of the Junior Prefects. It was something I was to find out to my cost in the fullness of time as I progressed through the school.

The authority invested in the Junior Prefects with regard to all schoolboys wearing short trousers was absolute. There was no appeal. It didn’t matter what age the boy was. If he was sent to school in short trousers he could find himself hauled up in front of long trouser-wearing twelve year old Junior Prefects for the most trivial of uniform violations.

Thus, I found myself at the mercy of these Junior Prefects who enjoyed nothing more than ticking off and humiliating short trouser-wearing boys like me. At fourteen it had been bad enough to be the subject of their whims, but it soon became unbearable as I entered the Fourth Form as I was now the only boy in the class still in short trousers.

Finding the smallest fault with my uniform was considered to be something of a sport among the Junior Prefects. I’m sure they would egg each other on to see who among them could find new ways to humiliate me by their discerning analysis of the school’s byzantine uniform regulations. This forced upon me an almost pathological fear of being dressed incorrectly, but however much I tried, the Junior Prefects would always find some excuse to have their fun.

When I dressed for school in the morning my heart would be thumping. I was a nervous wreck as I checked to see whether I’d forgotten anything; were my socks pulled up correctly; should I be wearing long socks or ankle socks; was it better for me to wear sandals; was my school cap on straight; did my shorts pass the ‘finger-tip test’? Was my tie knotted correctly and my shirt buttons all properly done up? This was not done through any sense of pride in my school uniform you understand, but rather to avoid falling foul of the scrupulous attention of a Junior Prefect.

Nevertheless, Junior Prefects could be relied upon to find fault with my uniform at every opportunity and I would regularly find myself having to report for a formal ‘dressing-down’ in the Junior Prefects’ Common Room. It was humiliating enough for me, aged fourteen, wearing my extremely short school trousers that exposed the lower curves of my bottom, to be made to stand in front of Junior Prefects, boys two years younger than I and all of them wearing proper long trousers, to be told off because of some minor infraction of the school’s uniform regulations. By the time I was fifteen, at least a foot taller than all of the boys in the room and still going to school in absurdly brief short trousers, the humiliation of these ‘interviews’ with the Junior Prefects was just about intolerable.

Standing at attention, often with my hands clasped behind my head, I was ticked off by boys three years my junior and whose voices were still pitched high in the distinctive treble of barely pubescent boyhood. I was told of how I was bringing the school uniform into disrepute by my slovenly behaviour... I had allowed my socks to slip down by half an inch! I was told off because a lose hair had been seen by an eagle-eyed twelve year old Junior Prefect to be poking out from the back of my school cap. Obviously I couldn’t see this loose hair, but this was no excuse, I was told by the young boy wearing long trousers… long trousers that I should by then have been wearing. He went on and told me to smarten myself up and that it was about time I got myself a haircut! Yes, amazingly a twelve year old boy was fully authorised and entitled to order any boy wearing short school trousers to get a haircut. I was given a piece of paper, a chitty, signed by the Junior Prefect in question which I was to hand to the school’s approved barber (Mr Fenner, of course!) for him to sign once I’d received a haircut, which I was to pay for out of my pocket-money. I then had two days before I was to return to the Junior Prefects Common Room for a haircut inspection and to hand in the form duly signed by the barber.

One Junior Prefect in particular by the name of Wilson went out of his way to find fault with my school uniform. He would take great delight in pointing out the extreme shortness of my grey school shorts, which were always far shorter than the school’s regulations required. Wilson was guaranteed an audience of his fellow Junior Prefects particularly when he decided to quiz me on the exact length of my short trousers, as he so often did. Wilson would insist upon measuring them himself and I would be forced to stand with my legs apart and my hands locked behind my head while Wilson took a school ruler and measured the inside leg of my school shorts. (I should perhaps explain that the school uniform regulations specified a maximum inside leg length of two inches for short trousers worn by a boy irrespective of his age. My short trousers were of course always well within the uniform regulation specifications… usually between half an inch and one inch, although I was to find out that short trousers can be tailored to be shorter still). Wilson would take his time making sure the ruler tickled the inside of my smooth bare thigh. He would slide the ruler up inside the little leg of my school shorts to prod my balls. If I jerked, moved, or complained Wilson would tell me off and threaten to report me for disobedience (a sanction to be avoided at all costs as it involved a trip to the headmaster’s study).

Needless to say I was surrounded by giggling and laughing twelve year old Junior Prefects who encouraged Wilson to poke and prod my balls as he carried out his measurements. He would then ask me tell him the precise leg length of my short trousers. It didn’t matter that I had already carefully carried out the measurement before I set off for school that morning just in case. If I wasn’t within an eighth of an inch of the ‘correct’ measurement, Wilson would stand up waving his ruler menacingly. At his full height the top of Wilson’s head only just reached my shoulders, but he would lean back so that he could look me in the face and berate me on my stupidity.

“You don’t even know if your short trousers meet school uniform regulations!” he said as I looked down at him meekly.

“But… but I was sure they were half an inch… I measured them… honest I did, Wilson,” I protested, “Half an inch is okay, isn’t it?”

“But the inside leg measurement of your short trousers is not half an inch,” Wilson said and to emphasise this point he walked to my left side. I knew what was coming and gripped my hands tighter to the back of my head.

“So that you remember, you are to repeat after me ‘the inside leg measurement of my short trousers is not half an inch it is three eighths of an inch…’”

As Wilson said these words he thwipped the back of my bare left thigh, right at the top, with the ruler, one smack of the ruler for each word spoken. Twenty smacks and they stung like blazes. But that wasn’t all. As I choked out the words to be repeated, Wilson applied twenty more with the school ruler on my right thigh. My eyes were watering.

Wilson’s fellow Junior prefects loved it and were full of praise for his prowess with the ruler. They admired the blistering red marks and each had a good feel to see how hot my legs were.

Of course Junior Prefects had no right to indulge in this sort of behaviour and administering corporal punishment was not something they were allowed to carry out… officially, that is. If I even considered complaining I knew it would make matters worse and my life at school would become even more unbearable than it already was. I certainly knew I would receive no support from my mother, who would consider anything the Junior Prefects did to me well deserved, since I must obviously have been in ‘in the wrong’. Besides, smacking a boy on his bare thighs could hardly be considered corporal punishment, could it?

“It seems to me that you are being deliberately unhelpful…” Wilson said as he moved round to my right side.

“No… please, Wilson… I’m not… honestly…” The shame I felt as I stood there, towering over the long trousered twelve year old Junior Perfect as he lorded it over a fifteen year old Fourth Former wearing thigh-baring short school trousers, was intense. I was surely physically strong enough to stop Wilson from his next move, but it was my upbringing that told me not to. Despite the age difference, even knowing Wilson was three years younger than I was and much smaller, I had been taught that a boy in short trousers, such as myself, had always to respect and defer to those wearing long trousers whatever their age.

I begged shamelessly, thus further lowering my status, becoming a sniveling little boy who deserves all he gets. Wilson told one of his acolytes to pull up the front right leg of my short trousers. The boy, another twelve year old Junior Prefect, gleefully pushed his hand into the leg of my school shorts and yanked it upwards. I could feel the boy’s knuckle as it pressed against me somewhere near to the leg elastic of my underpants. I could barely stop myself shaking.

“Please, Wilson… I’ll do whatever you want… please, don’t,” I couldn’t help but demean myself in front of all the sniggering Junior Prefects who were now urging Wilson to smack the front of my bare thighs with his school ruler.

“Go on, Wilson… make his legs nice and red for him… get them really hot!”

“Please… I’m begging you, Wilson… NO! PLEASE!... OW!!” I shrieked as the school ruler thwacked the front of my right thigh.

“It’s for your own good,” Wilson told me, beginning to sound like one of the teachers, “School uniform regulations are there for a purpose… you should learn to take pride in your school uniform...”

Each time he paused Wilson smacked my reddening thigh. With unfailing accuracy he hit the exact same spot on my leg causing immense, unbearable pain. I could feel my eyes watering as I heard the boy who was holding up the leg of my school shorts exclaim:

“Gosh, Wilson… they’re real stingers! You could fry an egg on his leg… ha-ha! Do you want me to pull up the other leg?” he asked.

That was a daft question. Of course Wilson was going to redden the front of my left thigh as well. He was going to give me a ‘back-to-front-and-all-the-way-round’ tour with his school ruler. And even before he commenced the last ‘leg’ of his tour, the tears began to trickle down my face bringing hoots of derisive laughter from the assembled Junior Prefects.

By squeezing my lips together I hoped to prevent myself from sobbing in front of boys three year my junior, but I couldn’t. It was impossible for me, the sting of Wilson’s well aimed school ruler was too fiery and I blurted and blubbed and cried, all pretence of stoicism destroyed. By the time Wilson had finished his work with the ruler the tops of my thighs were deep red, hot and throbbing… all for my being, in Wilson’s words, ‘deliberately unhelpful’.

Proud of his work, Wilson invited his fellow Junior Prefects to feel the results of the thigh-smacking he had just administered and I was now subjected to the further painful indignity of having my burning legs squeezed and felt by a dozen hands or more. This caused much merriment among the young boys as I twisted and gasped. Some hands felt more than the deep red blotches on my thighs. Small fingers were pushed up the legs of my school shorts and boys laughed at my discomfort as I was forced up onto tip-toes by their exploring hands.

When I was finally allowed to leave the Junior Prefects Common Room my upper thighs were of course still shockingly red, as was my face. Turning a corner my path crossed one of our teachers. He looked down at my bare legs.

“Hmm… you’ve had an interview with the Junior Prefects I see.”

This was said with an amused smile, as if my half hour of abject purgatory was no more than light-hearted horseplay or tomfoolery. I nodded and managed to confirm that I had. “Well run along… you don’t want to be late for your next class…”

With my thighs burning I did just that. The last thing I needed was to be hauled out in front of the class for lateness. As it was I got to the classroom before our teacher’s arrival, but when my classmates saw my bright red legs that positively glowed like an advert for Ready Brek, they hooted with laughter. Some of the boys rummaged about, asking if anyone had seen their sunglasses, to which another wit pointed out that he would need to borrow an arc-welder’s visor my legs were so bright. Other boys put their hands near to my thighs, but quickly pulled them away shaking their palms and blowing on them as if the heat given off from my legs was too much for them to bear.

The fun at my expense finally stopped when our teacher arrived and I made my way to my desk. Our desks were the old wooden type connected by a steel rail on each side of the desk to a fold-down seat which consisted of nothing more than a flat piece of timber, polished over the years by the posteriors of hundreds, if not thousands, of schoolboys.

I stood at my desk and, when the teacher gave us permission to sit, pulled down the wooden seat from the back-rest. As usual it squeaked, but that was as nothing to the noise I made as the backs of my red thighs made contact with with the hard wooden seat. Wilson, with an accuracy one wouldn’t have expected from a boy of twelve, had made sure to smack my thighs where I would feel it most when I sat down. But that wasn’t all. If you recall, Wilson asked one of the other Junior Prefects to yank up the front of my school short trousers before he commenced to smack the front of my thighs. As I sat down and my short trousers rode up and tightened, the front hem of the legs of my short trousers bit into the reddest part of my thighs and almost brought fresh tears to my eyes. God, how it stung!

Boys around me were giggling at my discomfort, whispering and telling me that it was about time I got some long trousers. They weren’t at all convinced when I told them how I preferred to wear short trousers. I writhed and squirmed on the hard wooden seat throughout the lesson.