I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by author 11plus.  All the characters are aged 18 or over!

“This is really rather good.  You should try to get it published.  I could type it up for you, if you like,” said Julie Smith, as I gazed into her blue eyes.  Of course, it was her knickers I really wanted to gaze into.

“Have you got a typewriter at home then?” I asked, “After all, I’m not sure you should type it up here at school.”

“Mum’s got a fancy new electric typewriter.  She doesn’t mind me using it.”

“Well, that’s a very kind offer,Julie.  Thank you.  I’d like that very much.  And do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?”  So it was that I left the smudgy manuscript of ‘I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins’ with her.

The following day, I found myself waiting in the gloomy corridor outside the headmaster’s polished oak door.  I was nervous and scared.  I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but he seemed terribly angry with me.  He’d told me to report to his study ‘within the hour’.  But he wasn’t there.  What did he want to see me about?  Eventually, he came ambling along, smoking, with a chipped mug of tea in his hand.  He ushered me into the room, followed me in and then asked me to close the door. He dripped tea over the floor.  The stink of stale and fresh cigarette smoke was overwhelming.

It was then that I saw two things that horrified me.  On his desk was the manuscript I’d given to Julie.  And then right next to it was a crook-handled school cane!  It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and end up with six of the best!  Even a poor Maths scholar like me could see the inevitable conclusion.

The headmaster picked up my work, saying, “Not very bright of you to autograph this, Hughes!  How dare you write this filth, and then bring it into school!  And to leave it lying around in the sixth form girls’ study.  Surely you know that’s out of bounds, even to senior boys?”

“I’m sorry Sir.  I lost track of it.  I’ll take it home.  It was meant as a fun piece.  Not so much a novella, more of a bodice ripper, Sir!”

“A bodice ripper, eh?  What a quaint term.  However, this is clearly a satanic effort, Hughes.  And this is a Christian school, I hardly need to remind you.  Clearly, I need to beat the devil out of you.  With my bottom ripper!”

“But Sir…”

“Listen lad!  I know what you’re going to say.  Let me guess now.  You’re too old for the cane.  You’re 18, an adult.  However, I’m a firm believer that no-one, let alone an upper sixth former, is too old for the cane!  Now then.  I’ve had a look at your record.  Never been beaten before, I see.  That’s commendable in some ways.  But how long has this filthy story been festering away in your mind?  Eh?”

“Errr.”

“Lost for words?”

“Yes, Sir.  Sorry Sir.”

“Hmmm.  Well, really I’d like to give you sixteen strokes of the cane, one for each virgin defiled in your filthy story.  But I’m not allowed to impose that many.  So, perhaps half, that is to say eight would be appropriate.”

“Oh Sir!”

“However, if you agree to me destroying this filth, I will reduce the sentence to six of the best.  Six of the very, very best.  I’m being lenient.  Well, what do you say?  Well?  Hurry up!”

“Thank you Sir.  Please destroy it.”

“Good!”  With that he tore the A4 pages in half, top to bottom.  He then proceeded to rip the paper into smaller pieces.  Once he had finished, he chuckled and piled the scraps into his large glass ashtray.  Then to my astonishment, he lit up another cigarette and then used the match to burn the paper scraps.  I was worried that the maniac would set the study on fire, but he monitored the smouldering scraps carefully, stubbing out the fires with the tip of his cigarette.  He soon lost interest, and left the charred scraps alone.  “I feel better already,” he said, leering menacingly at me, “I could let you off I suppose.  Yes, I could.  I could, but I won’t.  You need to be taught a lesson!”

With that, he picked up the cane and started swishing it through the air.  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.  “Right lad.  Take your jacket off, hang it over there.  That’s it.  Then over the chair!”  He pointed to the grey leather chair.  “Lean over the back.  That’s it.  Right over.  Up on your toes.  Stick your bottom out more.  Hold still!  Here it comes now!”

With an almighty crack the cane landed on my thin grey trousers at lightning speed and with an unbelievably venomous sting.  The chair moved with the force of the blow.  That sting!  Oh, so this was what a caning was like.  It was hell!  Strangely, I felt my bottom willing me on, so I thrust my arse out, goading the sick old man to do his very worst.  Which he did, landing a crisp and cutting second stroke in almost the same place as the first one.  The pain multiplied, as I gasped with disbelief at the havoc the old man was wreaking, and yet my bottom soon raised up for the next stroke.  Thankfully this one landed a little lower, although still blazing away like a wildfire.

Suddenly, he stopped.  We were half way through.  Waves and waves of pain lapped all over my arse.  I was in agony.  I was regretting ever having taken pen to paper and vowed to never write anything in the horror genre again.

“Wait there.  I want another cigarette,” he informed me.  I was about to protest but soon realised that might not be the smartest of ideas.  I heard him light up.  I just wanted him to get on with my thrashing, but I could hear him puffing away contentedly.  I stuck my arse out ready for the next stroke, but the bastard was making me wait and wait.  I wiggled my arse, trying to ameliorate the pain as I did so, but he just told me to keep still.  Eventually I heard him stub out the ciggie, probably on the remnants of my manuscript.

“Ah, now that was a fine, fine cigarette,” he said, “Nothing more satisfying than the combination of a manly smoke and a good, hard caning!”

He laid into my arse again.  The stroke was the lowest yet, cutting into the tender flesh just where arse met thighs.  I squealed with shock and pain, utterly humiliated by my bastard headmaster.  I wanted it over, but he had stopped again.  Surely, he wasn’t going to light up again?  I thrust my bottom out provocatively, positively begging for the final two strokes and to bring on the conclusion.  It must have worked as I heard the swish and crack of the cane again, releasing new agony and another helpless yelp from yours truly.

I waited and waited for that final stroke.  Eventually it came, cracking my grey flannels and causing me to gasp loudly.  I shed a few tears too, most embarrassingly.

“Right, you can get up now.  I shall be keeping a close eye on you in future, Hughes, my boy.  You can expect a fresh, hard caning if you cross my path again!  What can you expect boy?”

I couldn’t believe it!  As well as humiliating me by caning me black and blue, he now wanted to shame me into repeating his threat!  I gave in though, saying, “A fresh, hard caning Sir!”

“Quite so, quite so!  Now watch out or it will be with your trousers down next time.  Dismissed!”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said submissively, grabbing my blazer from the hook.  As I left, I saw that he was filling in the punishment book.  I shuddered and was sure that I didn’t want a second entry in there.

I made my way to the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle.  I found a biro in my blazer, and was soon adding to the graffiti on the walls.  B-A-S-T-A-R-D I wrote, feeling all rebellious.  I then dropped my trousers and pants and felt the ridges the cane had left on my arse.  An overwhelming urge to masturbate came over me and my rock-hard cock was soon spunking into some toilet paper.  The cum was creamy and hot, but not as hot as my arse.  Immediately feeling a bit better, I flushed the evidence away and then wrote the words C-A-N-E-D H-A-R-D T-O-D-A-Y on the painted wooden door.  My experience duly recorded for posterity, it was time to move on!

The lessons that afternoon were hard to concentrate on.  My arse throbbed and ached.  The hard extruded plastic chairs in the classrooms were harshly unforgiving.  There was no comfort to be had, at least not until I got home, I thought.  I fancied a cool bath and then maybe another wank or two.

Julie caught up with me as I walked home.  She had heard about my caning.  You could count on bad news and schadenfreude spreading quickly around the school.  She grabbed my arm and asked how I’d got on.  “It did hurt, Julie.  I can’t deny it.  I’d never been caned before and wouldn’t want it again.  My bum is so, so sore.  The bastard tore up my story too.  I’m not sure how he got his hands on it in the first place.”

“Oh, that’s my fault.  I must have left it in girls’ study.  I’m such a scatterbrain.  I’m so sorry.  And I’m sorry you got the cane.”

“It’s alright.  I’m lucky not to have been caned before, I reckon.  Some of the things I’ve got away with!” I was talking my bad boy image up, hoping to impress the sexy minx with my bravado.  “I should have had more sense than to bring the story into school in the first place, I suppose.  Still, I’ve got the last laugh as I made a carbon copy as I wrote the bloody thing.  If you’re still offering, I’d be grateful if you could type it up for me.  And as I said, if you do, just let me know if there’s anything I can do in return.”

“Of course I can type it up for you.  It’s the least I can do, and actually, there is something you can do for me.”

“Sure.  Anything.”

“You can show me the cane stripes on your bottom.”

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Story © MMXVI by 11plus

Photograph of and © Jonathan, R.I.P.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Other stories by 11plus are here and here

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