The Ingram-Lewis Chronicles

But Pennington still showed signs of resistance: "Come off it, Ingram-Lewis, you could just overlook..."

"Pennington, I shall count to three and if I don't see a naked arse waiting to be beaten by then, I shall take you to the Headmaster forthwith. Believe me, Pennington if that occurs, you will certainly get a birching. So, it's up to you. Decide!"

And that was how Patrick found himself gazing at a finely muscled rump, totally naked and just asking to be beaten and possibly fucked. He also noted that Pennington had a splendid cock which, freed from the encumbering underwear, and was hanging loosely between his legs.

He picked up the cane from his desk, bent it practically completely double under Pennington's nose and said: "You know Pennington; you are a lucky lad tonight. You see this cane. It's brand new and of a special flexible quality reputed to be much more painful than the old rattan. The Headmaster has ordered several of them specially and has just today handed them out to the prefects. So, Pennington, as you can see, everyone has your best interests at heart. We all want to assure you that you are been give the very best available treatment. And in your case, it's a double first: look upon it as equivalent to being awarded the top Cambridge degree: the double first! I shall have the honour to be the first prefect to apply this cane and yours the first arse to feel its magic. So, Pennington, you should feel very privileged, very privileged indeed."

Pennington, of course, couldn't give a fuck about the uniqueness of the occasion. All that worried him right then was just now painful the beating was going to be. He soon found out. Patrick tapped Pennington's rump a few times, more or less on its equator as he tried to judge where to place the six strokes to maximum effect, the places to deliver the greatest pain to the awaiting arse. He delivered the first resounding cut more or less across the middle of Pennington's arse and was delighted to see that the new cane, with its enhanced flexibility, wrapped itself effectively right around Pennington's two splendid buns, where a wicked red welt rapidly appeared. It has to be remembered that prefects seldom moderated their strokes in the way a master often did, but went ahead and thrashed their target with the maximum force, a force just below the blood-drawing threshold. Yes, it was true; a prefect's beating was a usually awesome and painful occasion and one to be avoided.

Pennington let out a howl of pain. But then, who wouldn't have done the same? Patrick fished in his pocket and found an old cork which he had forgotten to give to Pennington to bite on to help him bear the pain quietly.

"Fucking hell, Ingram Lewis that was bloody painful. Couldn't you just moderate it a bit?"

"Pennington, when I beat a boy, I aim to leave him with an excruciatingly painful arse. I see no reason for half measure s. If a boy deserves beating, as you undoubtedly do, then maximum pain is the order of the day and that is exactly what I intend to treat your backside to. So, just bite on that cork and it will soon be over."

With that, Patrick proceeded to give the supplicant arse another five cuts, placing two towards the lower back and three on the lower buttocks near the top of the legs. This, the so-called "sit-upon-spot" was a favourite target by experience wielders of the cane, for it ensured that the recipient had difficulty in sitting down comfortably for quite some time. When he had finished, Pennington, eighteen years old or not, could not control his tears. His arse was absolutely incandescent with pain and one had to admit that Patrick was an ace with the cane.

"Fucking hell, Ingram Lewis, That was the most painful experience I have ever had in my entire school career. It was twice as bad as anything I have ever had from the Headmaster, who always gives twelve cuts bare. But Jesus Christ man, you have really roasted my buns. How the hell am I ever going to sit down again? I don't think you have any idea of the pain: it's bloody awful." Pennington had not yet pulled himself upright from the chair. He could hardly bear move his arse: it was just so painful.

"Well. Pennington, I just did my duty. Whenever I cane a boy, I make him appreciate what punishment is all about. I see no point at all in giving just a few light taps. So, now you know: it's always full steam ahead with me. Anyway, Pennington, you'll soon recover and I hope there are no hard feelings; I've nothing against you personally, and you took our beating very well."

Patrick now noticed that Pennington's cock had hardened during the beating and was dripping drops of pre-cum onto the floor. His own large cock was already fighting to get out of his trousers, for all beatings always aroused Patrick.

Changing the tone of his voice, now that the punishment was over, he said: "Listen Roderick, I know you're in absolute agony. But you have to understand that that is the name of the game. There is no point in beating a guy unless it really hurts. He has to realise that pain is the retribution he has to suffer. I know exactly how you feel as I've lived through it countless times myself. So listen, if you like, I'll I could try and help you ease the pain, with little light massage."

"So that's what that bottle of oil is for: to help me ease my pain. Well, OK, Patrick if you think it will help, go ahead. How do you want me? Should I stay where I am?"

And that was how the first step was taken, to what was to become a very pleasant evening for both young men. Both Roderick and Patrick knew full well what was going to happen but neither of them actually put it into words; not yet in any case. Patrick opened the oil and poured a liberal quantity into the chasm separating Roderick's two flaming buns. He then began very gently massaging the soothing oil into the raw flesh, his fingers probing ever more deeply until they reached that all important point: Roderick's anus. He paused and waited a few moments until Roderick told him to go on.

"Listen, Patrick, if you're going to do it, for Christ's sake get on with it. Go on; shaft me, for that's what you want to do isn't it?"

"I don't want to do anything which you do not want to do, Roderick." said Patrick as he stepped out of his own trousers and underwear, freeing is rock-hard tool, already dripping with pre-cum from its confinement.

"Oh for crying out loud, Patrick, stop acting like an old woman. Get on with it. Stick it to me and give my hole a good pounding, for that's what we both want. Just let's stop pussy-footing about. Just give me a real good fuck."

Patrick did exactly that. When he finally climaxed in a huge orgasm, both he and Roderick let out moans of pleasure. "My god, Patrick, you're as good with our cock as you are with the cane. You really are a true pro. with both."

"Ah, my friend, there's no substitute for experience and I've had plenty at both. Glad you enjoyed the fuck, though. It gave me more pleasure than thrashing hour arse. Now, how about a fag? I really need a smoke to cal my nerves."

"You don't mean that we are now going to have a drag, here and now do you? Fucking hell man, you've just beaten me to pulp for smoking and now you propose that we so the same."

"My dear, Roderick, let's be quite clear about something. I didn't punish you for smoking; I punished you because I caught you smoking and as a prefect I had no option but to beat you; I had to do my duty. As I told you, your mistake was to allow yourself to be caught by a prefect. Anyone of my co-prefects would have done the same. Now, do you or do you not want a fag?"

"Yes I do. You know full well I do. But what the hell happens if someone catches us smoking in here, half naked?"

"Well, we'll probably both be birched. But fear not, O ye of little faith, no one is going to catch us. So let's enjoy a drag and then if you feel up to it, not too weak I mean, you might like to consider a return bout. You have a really nice cock, Roderick, and you know my own arse does feel very neglected given all the attention yours has been getting recently,"

Needled by these provocative remarks, which, of course had been Patrick's intention, Roderick duped in feet first: "What the fuck do you mean by saying if I do not feel up to it? Let me tell you that I am quite capable of nailing our arse to the ground and that is precisely what I am going to do."

Patrick walked laughingly across to the half naked Roderick; pulled of his shirt and then his own and the two muscular, young studs stood there, face to face, cocks rock-hard, waiting for each other to move. Suddenly Roderick realised that he had been sent up and started to laugh: "OK stud. How do you want it? Anyway is good for me. I reckon that when it comes to fucking arse, I'm at least your equal and quite possibly your better."

"I really hope so; my hole is crying out to be fucked. So just go ahead and prove it to me." And with that, Patrick went over to the couch, lay on his back, opened his legs to welcome Roderick's cock and waited.

And thus began an hour or so of more or less continuous copulation as the two boys enjoyed each other's bodies. It was a truly joyous coupling and the two lads finally left to go to their respective beds, firm friends. And it was true, Roderick proved himself one hell of a stud: an excellent all-round cocksman.

They were a well matched pair.

The above little vignette gives the reader a good idea of how Patrick's final year at Rigby panned out. Basically, to sum up Patrick's philosophy rather crudely, it was very much flog 'em and then fuck 'em if they are old enough. In fact Patrick really only liked boys of his own age or a year or so older, so only the final year boys at Rigby experienced the largesse of Patrick's undoubted prowess at arse reaming. And although Patrick himself was not alone to practise anal intercourse, he was its undoubted king. Fucking and flogging were to remain permanently two key activities in Patrick's life and his taste for both male and female companions continued until the day he died.

It is worth noting that Roderick Pennington was a typical example of a straight boy who indulged in buggery whilst at school. When he left, he went on to university, where he did well and thence into industry, where he became chairman of a major manufacturing company and eventually was awarded a knighthood. Sir Roderick Pennington married and had three children. He was a prime example of the reason why most public schools tolerated buggery among the older boys. His career bore out the assertion that most boys were not homosexual and that once out of school and in mixed society, they would drop the habit of fucking other men, marry and lead a normal life.

But coming back to Patrick Ingram-Lewis, he left Rigby and enrolled in a Royal Navy officer cadet training course with a view to joining the Royal Navy as a commissioned officer. The course was somewhat of a shock, like standing under a shower of ice-cold water, for having been a beater himself at Rigby, he now found himself, as a young trainee officer cadet, being beaten by his instructors. But after two years he emerged as a young commissioned officer with the rank of lieutenant, with the reputation among his fellow cadets of having a hyperactive cock, whose largesse was enjoyed by both his male comrades and his female conquests in town. Yes, Patrick Ingram-Lewis was a bit of a lad, to say the very least, which brings us to the conception, birth and the early life of his only son, Cedric Oliver, Ingram-Lewis, who in case you had forgotten was, at the beginning of this story to be found stretched across a chair waiting for that Sword of Damocles in the form of Headmaster, Mr Inkpen's cane to warm his virgin arse.

Patrick Ingram-Lewis had been left without a father at a fairly early age and his mother, Mrs Mildred Ingram-Lewis, born Mildred Agnes Crosby-Aston, lived alone in the Ingram-Lewis family pile, Ingram House, near Hexham. The Parker-Astons had also been in coalmining and were considered the crème de la crème of the mining dynasties. So the marriage uniting the double barrelled Ingram-Lewis's with the double barrelled Parker-Astons created what Mrs Ingram-Lewis, as Mildred now became, the premier family in the region. That is, anyway, the way that Mildred saw it. Mildred Ingram-Lewis lived in isolated grandeur surrounded by servants and rarely saw her only child, Patrick, who, in the tradition of the upper classes, had been shipped off to boarding school at the tender age of eight, and saw his mother only during the school holidays, when his presence even then was somewhat of a bore, for he interfered with his mother's social life.

When he graduated as a lieutenant from his naval training, all of which had been conducted down in Devon in the south of the country, just about as far from his home territory as he could get, he spent three months at home in Hexham, before bis first posting at sea. This was about the longest period in his life he had ever had to put up with his mother and she with him. To say that they did not to see eye to eye was to put it very mildly. But as head of the family and owner of the family estate, Patrick did exactly as he pleased, whilst his mother looked on in disapproving silence.

To a young and sexually active naval officer like Patrick, the delights of Hexam were distinctly limited. So he took to going into Newcastle to find some congenial company, either male of female, on whom he could exercise his considerable sexual attributes. Among those who fell prey to Patrick's sexual advances was one, Beryl Cherith Penge. I ask you, what a name to be lumbered with. But Beryl was an attractive girl, indeed very attractive, had a nice figure and Patrick found her irresistible. In fact it was not clear who found whom more irresistible, for Beryl did not need much encouragement. Well, to cut a long story short, the outcome of their frequent coupling was the Patricks son, Cedric Oliver, heir to the Ingram-Lewis fortune.

Beryl's father had been an underground miner in one of the pits just north of Newcastle, but he and his wife and, of course, Beryl, now ran a seaside boarding house in the nearby resort of Whitley Bay. For those of you unfamiliar with the north east coast of England near Newcastle, let me tell you that it is one of the most dismally unattractive stretches of coast in the country, looking out as it does onto the grey, cold North Sea. How this place managed to drag itself up by its bootstraps and become a holiday destination beats me: but it did! Anyway, thanks to his inability to control his own cock, Patrick now found himself with a pregnant woman on his hands; moreover a woman from a totally different class to himself. And that, in the early part of the century was a very serious matter. People were very class conscious in Britain. They still are, but not the way they were back then. Then there was a place for everyone and everyone knew his place and Beryl and Patrick did not come from the same place and they both knew it.

But in the foolishness of youth, Patrick convinced himself that he was in love with Beryl and "did the right thing by her", which is to say she became his wife and in the fullness of time the mother of our "hero" Cedric Oliver Ingram-Lewis, the heir to the Ingram- Lewis estate and fortune. The ink on the marriage certificate was barely dry, before Patrick realised that he had made a monumental mistake. Apart from sex, which both he and Beryl enjoyed together enormously, the two of them had nothing whatsoever in common. Indeed they almost spoke a different language.

Patrick's mother was appalled at the marriage and nearly had an apoplectic fit when he installed his wife as mistress of Ingram House, which was, of course, his, and then took off to sea, leaving mother and grandmother to tend to baby Cedric Oliver's needs. The only good thing about the whole affair was that there was plenty of money and so the two women did not have to stint themselves. But it was the abundance of cash which was the ultimate problem leading to diametrically opposed views as to how the child should be brought up. The elder Mrs Ingram Lewis and her daughter in law, Beryl, whose name she could barely bring herself to utter out loud, had diametrically opposed views on how the child should be brought up. Patrick's mother, as befitted someone of her class, wanted to engage a nanny and then pack Cedric Oliver off to a preparatory school as soon as possible, whereas his working class mother wanted to raise her child herself. And so there was a constant battle between the two women, always civil, but rarely amiable.

At the end the day, a nanny was engaged, but Beryl was never far away and she and the nanny, as you might well imagine, did not see eye to eye, for who was controlling the child? And nannies, of course, although being basically from the working class (upper working class!), considered themselves a cut above the rest and to have to answer to a mistress who was from the same class as herself was a bitter pill for a nanny to swallow. So there was friction between the women, for the nanny thought that she was in control, whereas Beryl, who understood as much about the art of nannying as she did about flying to the moon, knew that, at the end of the day, it was she who had the final word. So, yes, there was friction: considerable friction. But as Cedric Oliver grew older, a private male tutor was engaged and the boy received the doubtful benefit of an education at home, totally divorced from the realities of life. Moreover, as Beryl was highly protective of her only child, Oliver was totally spoiled and did as he wished. He became a wilful young miscreant, but one who was never punished. And so, as you might well image, when he was finally shipped off, aged eleven, to the Rigby Court Preparatory School, he was totally unacquainted with the harsh realities of the life at an upper class school into which he was now thrown. It was like being dumped into a bath of cold water, as he no longer had his mother to protect him.

Oliver barely knew his father, who spent most of his working days aboard his ship as a commissioned office of the Royal Navy and, quite frankly, what he did know of him, he did not particularly like. He saw him only on the rare occasions when he came up north on leave and there was not much of the father-son relationship between them. And with the 1914-1918 war when his father was more or less on active service the whole time, the rare visits became even rarer. However, in 1919, when Oliver reached the age of ten, Commander Ingram-Lewis as he had by then become, finally put his foot down and told Beryl that as of next year, their son would be enrolled in the Rigby Court Preparatory School to prepare him for entry at age thirteen into Rigby School. There was no longer any further question of his education being left in the hands of an ineffective private tutor. Oliver would enjoy the rigours of the English Public school system and would be brought up as an English gentleman: what had been good enough for his father would be good enough for him. And so, we join Oliver, aged eleven, on his first day at Rigby Court School and already, so to speak, in deep water and sinking fast. He was about to "enjoy" his first day at school!

The Headmaster, Mr Inkpen, had had a totally unsatisfactory summer break. He had gone off on a holiday with a friend of similar sexual persuasion to himself with whom, in the past he had enjoyed a good physical relationship. They had taken a cottage together in the Lake District and Gee-Gee had been looking forward to two weeks of active copulation. But, alas, his friend had commenced to have doubts about his own true sexuality. It turned out that he had met a girl whom he was rather keen on, who had captured his heart, as a result of which he was questioning himself about his own sexuality. He was in that awful, uncertain phase of asking himself: "Am I or am I not?" So what had been envisaged as a period of uninhibited fucking turned out to be two weeks of interminable, soul-searching conversation between the two men. Had anyone recorded it, it would have made a great basis for one of those dreary novels written by the "break-through" writers. You know the sort; the ones no one actually reads, except for the critics who were sent a free copy of the book by the publisher and who then acclaim them before they disappear into oblivion. The two weeks, during which it rained more or less incessantly (a key feature of the Lake District, by the way) ended with their being no conclusion and the Gee-Gee's friend left still searching his soul, wondering what he should do. Gee-Gee, meanwhile left and went back to the school where he lived, feeling utterly frustrated. It would be fare to say that at that time, Gee-Gee's heart was not overflowing with the milk of human kindness. In the modern vernacular, he was pissed off!