THE LAST CHANCE.....Part 1

Author: John Crouch sixbest675@aol.com

Charles sat slumped on his trunk awaiting the dog cart which would take him and his luggage to the station and from there, all too quickly, to the impending confrontation with his guardian. He could not bear to look behind him at the gothic pile which had been his refuge for the past five years. If only he had somehow fitted in the time and energy that his studies demanded and spent less time on sport and other seemingly important things. He alone among his friends had missed his place at university and with it a substantial legacy under the terms of his father’s will.

Much later he arrived at his guardian’s house at Blackheath to a very cool reception. This distant relative, a Solicitor by profession, held Charles’ fate entirely in his hands. A cold supper had been left for Charles and he sat and picked at it in lonely misery. Later as he crossed the dimly lit hallway on his way to bed he was startled by Grover, his guardian’s coachman, who was sitting uncomfortably on the bench seat in the alcove beneath the stairs. It brought a shock of remembrance of unpleasant times past and sure enough in Grover’s ugly hands was the familiar crop. Surely it was a joke Charles thought.

"I’m sorry, Sir, but I have my orders and I’ll ask you to comply without a fuss." Charles took in the words and his mind raced over his predicament. It didn’t need a genius to realise that all of his future lay in his guardians’ hands and that resistance would mean at best a precarious future and at worst ruin. Charles was no genius but he wasn’t a fool either. Anyway, Grover’s heart wouldn’t be in it, would it?

Grover rose and with familiar movements they pulled the bench seat out into the wide space of the hall. Still hoping somehow this was some ludicrous joke Charles gave one last pleading look toward Grover but it was met by no flicker of expression. Charles unfastened his breeches and lowered his undergarment. At just over eighteen years of age he was taken back sharply to times past. He wrapped his long figure over the back of the bench, his pale solid buttocks high over the bench, his trembling legs braced on the floor, his broad shoulders and his head lowered to the squab. "CRACK". The first cut bit into his cheek and the pain exploded worse than he had remembered. "CRACK", the second to the other buttock, the little tail piece of the crop completing the misery of the crop itself. "CRACK". Squirming now despite his best intentions as the crop fell upon his flesh. The pale buttocks were streaked now with red weals which sprang out at each swing. "CRACK". Charles was biting at his lip and clenching and unclenching his fists now to try and distract himself from the burning hell of his punishment. That his guardian could wield such power over him, that this wiry, slightly built, coachman, whom Charles could have knocked down with one arm tied behind his back, could pour such pain into him caused waves of anger to flow through him and perhaps this even helped him to absorb the agony. "CRACK" the strokes were unending, remorseless. "CRACK".

Charles could feel a trickle of hot blood now where shots were landed upon shots. Abruptly it stopped. Charles forced his head around to catch a view of Grover from the corner of his eye. He was looking upward. "Four more". It was the voice of his Guardian, whom he had yet to see since his return. He had to be standing in the gloom of the landing looking down upon the hall. Charles realised why Grover had been so unrelenting. Better to get it done and done properly than to risk his employers anger and only prolong the beating in the process. "CRACK" despite himself, Charles was sobbing now, dragging in great breaths and sobbing like a child. But he could not prevent it. "CRACK". He blazed with fury at the thought of giving his Guardian this extra satisfaction. "CRACK" Charles heard himself wail and then "CRACK"-Charles slumped. "That last again-it was less than the house keeper could have managed!". Charles was exhausted, he couldn’t bear another. He imagined that it would not come anyway until he pulled himself up from his slumped position. But he was wrong. Galvanised by the fear of his employer, Grover swung again and "CRACK". Charles screamed.

Somewhere above them in the house a door slammed shut as his Guardian withdrew. Grover produced a bottle of ointment and a cloth. He tried to comfort the young man as he gently swabbed his handiwork. "There Sir, getting better already Sir. You’ll have to sleep front side down for a day or two Sir…."

Charles tried not to wince as he sat down at the breakfast table the next morning. He still hadn’t seen his Guardian although he was there, since having pushed back his chair he was now concealed almost entirely by the Times Newspaper in front of him. How Charles hated him. Charles ate and his Guardian read. At last he spoke.

"You are a fool young man. Under the terms of my duties I could give up my efforts for you right now. There would even be an advantage to me in doing so. However, not for you, you understand, but for your father’s sake I intend to employ one last remedy to this sorry state of affairs. I have found a private academy in Pimlico with very traditional methods" and he actually allowed himself a smile at this thought, "are used to allow idle young men a second chance to sit their exams for university entrance. It also appeals to me greatly, in that should you fail again, then they will accept no fees"

And with this short speech over and but two days later Charles, assisted by Grover's excellently detailed directions, found himself ringing the bell at a shabby house in Sussex Street Pimlico.

The academy had just twelve pupils at any time and three very elderly masters. The work was intense both on the premises and with the mountains of private work to be done between attendance. Charles knew that this would be his final chance and applied himself as he never had before. Thoughts of his guardians’ reference to traditional methods seemed wholly irrelevant. Anyway, thought Charles, these three frail old masters hardly represented any threat.

But then he hadn’t accounted for the likely actions of his fellow students nor realised a further peculiarity in the methods of the establishment. The twelve pupils having three masters were divided into three teams each of four students. As well as their individual performance being under close scrutiny, the performance of each group was equally observed and compared with the other groups. Effectively it meant that any lazy member of a team could bring down his group as a whole. Charles, Howard and Edward were all keen to work at this their last chance. The problem was Bertie. Landed aristocratic, assured of an inevitable and substantial inheritance, it was hard to see what he could possibly be doing in the Pimlico Academy. He didn’t seem to know himself but had agreed to attend and complete his time. What he hadn’t agreed to, of course, was to allow the copious extra curricular work to cramp either his sporting or his social engagements.

So no one was at all surprised when, on the results of the first team assessments being distributed, Charles’ syndicate was bottom by a huge amount despite the better than average efforts of three of the team.

They begged Bertie to get to work but their pleas went unheard. Richardson, the oldest and the most gaunt of the masters and assumed, though not stated to be, the senior master gave out solemn final warnings.

"Dash it chaps, your getting on with your work and doing your best, don’t concern yourself with my results-I don’t". Was all they got from Bertie. Even a month later with the second disastrous result posted to the notice board the biggest annoyance to the other three was simply that they had become the butt of jokes from the other groups.

But this time Bertie was absent from the start of their first class of the morning. As they listened to their tutor of the morning they became distracted by raised voices somewhere in the house. Then, much more distinctly, they heard Bertie protesting loudly. There followed a long silence as someone quieter spoken was replying. They returned their full attention to the class. A few minutes later Charles became aware that his companions had tensed and were listening to a distant sound. Their individual disbelief was followed by an exchange of glances. None of them could now mistake that sound. Smiles crept onto three faces as they realised that Bertie had met his Waterloo. Bertie was being thrashed.

A white faced Bertie still shaking from his encounter told them later: " I couldn’t get through that again chaps. You’ll have to help me catch up." It couldn’t have been that bad" replied Howard, a veteran of heavy inducements at his past school despite his ultimate lack of success "they’re all geriatric!." Bertie gave a wintery smile at this.

"It’s not them old boy. Some little oik in a flat cap, arms of steel, he dishes it out, Richardson just watches and advises….. and there’s worse I’m afraid. The reason I say you’ll have to help is that next time it’s all of us not just me." Edward took it worst. He knew better than the others that whatever they did Bertie would bring them down. Despite a small improvement in Bertie’s efforts and the completion of some of his whole tasks by the three the result was inevitable. Bertie flunked the assessment. Ashen and wild eyed even before the results were posted Bertie had become a friendless tragedy.

First thing after lunch on the Monday following publication of the results, with a weekend of misery and anticipation over for those four and a weekend of cheerful anticipation over for the other eight they were all summoned. Leaving their small study rooms dotted about the house they made their way to the first floor. Two large reception rooms extending from the front to the back of the whole property. A folding connecting door stood back to make one large room of these two. Chairs set out for all twelve in a group at one end and three chairs behind a huge partners desk for the masters, set out at the other end. Richardson rose once they were assembled.

"It is usual here for one of our groups to have some small disaster from time to time. It is unusual for one group to fail so dismally all of the time. Sadly this has happened over the last three months." There was absolute silence in the room as he paused. "It is always my wish that this Academy succeeds and that we get the results that your past schools have failed to achieve. I will not let the rot set in. Anyone here who imagines that they can slack off and relax in the slightest should take note of the fate that is about to befall the members of our second set and store it away as a reminder whenever there is a temptation to cut corners in your study."

There was a slight stirring of chairs now. Four heads remained downcast avoiding Richardson's eye.

"Stand up set two!." They rose at the command. "Come forward, form a line here, before the desk." He pointed with his finger, indicating a rough line". They shuffled forward and formed the line shoulder to shoulder, backs to their student friends, facing the group of three old men. "Remove your clothes".

A stunned pause followed this demand. Each tried to look from the corner of his eye at his neighbour, each still imagining that they had misheard or misunderstood. Two things happened simultaneously. Howard, with an awful resignation started to unfasten his shirt collar studs and Richardson barked "NOW".

Galvanised by this last and half aware of Howard’s action all four hastened to comply. After what seemed an age of buckles, buttons and hopping about, four piles of clothing appeared on the floor before the desk and four naked young men, heads bowed with embarrassment hands loosely but strategically clasped before them, stood before the desk.

"Mr. Lendrum" Richardson nodded to his colleague and sat down. Lendrum rose, moved round the desk and took each of Bertie, Howard, Charles and Edward, one by one, gently guiding them by the shoulders till they were each arranged a little further to the middle of the room and a little further apart. As he finished positioning each one he gently pushed down upon their shoulders saying quietly "Touch toes." Their student audience were now by turn either trying to look unconcerned at this strange tableau or taking surreptitious glances at them. If there was a common thought between them it was probably sheer relief at not being one of these unfortunates and the resolve never to become one!

"Four volunteers" Richardson looked at the eight seated boys. Each steadfastly avoided his gaze. "From the right front-you, you and you and you". He pointed at each and they could no longer ignore him.

"One each, stand by his head and await my instructions." He pointed at the bent figures aching now from their awkward stance.

Lendrum turned and looked an unspoken question at Richardson. "Yes, get him, tell him we are ready now".

A moment later, unseen by any member of set two, another figure entered the room. In his hand he bore a freshly prepared birch and beneath his arm another. Richardson signalled him with a wave of his bony hand that he should begin. Then turning back to the newly recruited volunteers he said.

"Hold your man by his head or shoulders-he won’t thank you if you let him up!"

To those who had had no contact with the birch the sight and the sound of it, landing with a dull almost subdued "splat" upon Edward’s firm white globes was almost an anticlimax. The wary lad beside him had not been certain what would be needed or expected of him and was relieved to see only the slightest shake of his head and to hear a slight moan. No such relaxation of fear and anticipation occurred among the three bent figures beyond him however. The four further students from their different viewpoint were only surprised to see the growing network of fine red weals that had sprung up, angry, on Edward’s pale white flesh . The masters, like crows on a telegraph line, craned forward to take in the sight.

From the end of the row Charles had realised that their tormentor was working along them one shot by turns. "splat", Howard now hissing out a long held breath, "splat" Bertie, almost a shriek of surprise and just when Charles was braced and ready no blow fell for a moment. A voice at his ear "re-arrange a little sir" confusion, a familiar voice…..what did it mean though. Before he could take it all in a hand roughly brushed the front of his thighs and he realised the rearrangement that had been made for him "just your nethers to be dealt with sir" and immediately- "splat". The blow itself sharp but seeming not severe. Then the build up of heat, then pain so that had not the chap beside him quickly placed restraining hands upon his head he would have risen involuntarily

"SPLAT", harder now as Bertie received his second unwelcome visit and with the shock of it’s intensity he shrieked out and stated to rise. His minder was quick though, having seen his neighbour grasp Charles just before. As if this was a contagion that might spread all four volunteers now moved round their charges, placing an arm over and around their necks, in a half head lock, as if about to actually wrestle them to the ground but denying them any chance to rise up. "SPLAT", Howard exhaling a long hissing breath but making no cry……"SPLAT" Edward now "aaahhhhhhh", a long despairing half suppressed desperation to his anguish. The attendants had transformed now, from embarrassed young men, uncertain of what was required of them, to more vengeful characters. Each firmly holding his charge, grim faced, looking down the length of a back towards the base of each spine and the top of the buttocks that each was now determined should remain firmly and resolutely in place for the birch. Those not pressed to volunteer now made no pretence of being distracted but all four watched transfixed, as did the three old masters, as the birch lit further fires and painted vivid colour across the young men’s agonised arses. "SPLAT"…..SPLAT"…….."SPLAT" a real rhythm now to the proceedings as the birch, journeyed to and fro' along the line. Bertie, having the best upholstered, least muscled and broadest seat might have been expected to fare better but by the fourth pass he was sobbing uncontrollably and giving his volunteer, indeed, the hardest task of restraint, since by now, far from holding the weighty Bertie down, he was now having to hold him up, or he would have crashed to the floor, a whimpering heap. At the tenth pass, there was a pause but a moments desperate hope that their ordeal might be over was dashed instantly with the realisation that their next visit would be by the second, as yet unused birch. Edward had not yet made more than a grunt at any blow although he appeared to be the most dramatically affected. His previously firm, pale, athletically shaped, buttocks were now heavy and swollen and bruised. Small pin prick holes from the birch ends had punctured his skin and tiny droplets of blood mingled among the weals and the savage redness that spread now over the whole area from the tops of his thighs to the line of his waist and around the sides of his hips.

Their skilful tormentor also used this changeover to change sides in his approach and avail himself of every square inch of target area.

"SPLAT"…."SPLAT"………."SPLAT"………..the four were now on some second wind. Each heavy shot blending seamlessly into the fire of the last, their bodies and brains soaking up every last drop of the pain. Their arses now still and submissive, any passed squirming or writhing forgotten as if it might actually prolong their ordeal.

Within the room, among the observers, the emotions were changing now again. Where first it had been a feint, but frankly amusing embarrassment for the initial humiliation of set two, then a horrified anticipation at what was to follow, then a more base emotion of pleasure at someone else’s suffering, there was now finally an air of discomfort. As the final four swings proceeded uniform and just as hard as all that gone before, "SPLAT"……"SPLAT"……."SPLAT"…….."SPLAT"…there was almost a desperation in the wait for some signal from the senior master that the matter was concluded. Even the minders had now relaxed their ferocious grip upon their charges and were almost comforting them rather than restraining them.

At last it was over. They were ordered to rise and shakily did so. Ashen faced they listened as Richardson instructed them to take their clothes with them to the bathroom at the top of the house and sort themselves out.

Charles had recognised that other voice and was not surprised to see the familiar figure of Grover leaving the room with his birches. His guardian was obviously more familiar and involved with this establishment than he had let on.

The other sets returned to their rooms, were seated and resumed their studies. Within three quarters of an hour set two also resumed their studies but their thoughtful master permitted them to stand behind their desks.