‘Oh my God, I’m so frightfully randy!‘ the Honourable Bertram Buttplughe moaned in sexual frustration as he lay in his iron bedstead in the small dormitory he shared with his fellow sixth former at Flagellators House, Adrian St John Longcock; Flagellators was one of the oldest of the seven houses at Whippingham College, the cruellest public school in all of England. ‘I really need to shoot my load, Adey!’
‘Well as long as you don’t expect me to give you a hand, old boy,’ responded Longcock, ‘I’ve given up tossing off for Lent! And in any case mutual wanking is now punishable by a public flogging, as well you know.’
‘It really is too much, that bounder Dr Reg banning all pashing with other chaps. He really is a total rotter!’ murmured Buttplughe indignantly. The fact that the new High Master of Whippingham College had earlier that day issued a blanket ban on all sexual dalliances with fellow pupils was an immense source of irritation to the Honourable Bertram, as he had been obliged to cancel his hitherto most satisfying mutual masturbatic arrangement with probably the best-looking fifth former in the house, the deliciously effeminate Jeremiah Tosselott, whose nickname had been "Little Spunky Balls", before the narrow-minded High Master had decreed that nicknames were unmanly and prejudicial to good discipline.
‘Just give yourself one off the wrist, Bertie, and stop whingeing,’ suggested Adrian. ‘Either that or why not come to the village knocking shop with me?’
‘The knocking shop? No thank you very much, Longcock, there’s only a couple of poxy, raddled old whores there.’
‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, old man; Knobby Flemsquirter was down there a couple of nights ago and he told me there’s a new girl in, and she’s a real cracker, apparently she goes like a Vauxhall Victor down a sleep incline. Name of Fifi.’
‘Did Knobby have one with her then?’
‘Said it was fantastic, she gave him the works for only thirty bob!’ Adrian St John Longcock sighed longingly and then silence reigned in the small dormitory under the eaves of historic Flagellators House as the two prefects considered the possibilities.
‘Are you up for it then, Adrian?’ whispered the Honourable Bertram.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We could nip out over the wall and be down there in half an hour, sampling Fifi’s wares.’
‘You aren’t serious are you, old man? I mean to say, breaking bounds after Lights Out is pretty serious. If the House Master found out he’d lambast our arses something wicked.’
‘But Old Pegleg won’t find out, will he? Of course, if you don’t have the balls for it…’ The prefect was, of course, referring to the house master, Captain Lasher, by his nickname, a piece of lèse-majesté which would have cost him dear if overheard by anyone in authority. The Captain had only recently been equipped with a new false podial attachment to remedy the injury he had incurred in the course of his naval duties, but the old nickname lingered on, like a fart in a cupboard.
‘Not got the balls? No one calls Adrian St John Longcock a coward! By God, no! Have you got your thirty shillings, then?’
And so in a few rash moments, the two chums made a decision which was to change the course of not only their lives, but the lives of many other people as well. As soon as they had raided their piggy banks, they hurriedly got dressed in their street clothes and crept out of the dorm, down the servants’ stairs, out the back door, through the house vegetable garden and over the wall.
***
Knock! Knock! Knock! The Honourable Bertram Buttplughe tapped on the door of the village brothel. It was easy to spot the house in the sleepy village of Lower Whippingham Magna as it was the only one with a red lantern hanging in the porch and red lights at the upper windows.
‘Welcome, young gents,’ croaked Mrs Slagg, the hideous old madam, as she opened the door to allow the two intrepid Don Juans in. ‘Come for a nice fuck with our Fifi, have you?’ she enquired. ‘She’ll be down in two shakes of a donkey‘s tail, as she‘s just having a piss and wash-up at the moment. It’s been a busy night and she always likes to keep herself nice and clean for you young gentlemen.’
The two randy lads were shown into the parlour where they were offered a ginger beer apiece and relieved of the not inconsiderable sum of three pounds. ‘That’s thirty bob each, including the rubber johnny,’ the old hag explained.
‘I say, do you think Fifi would mind if we did it all together, you know Mrs S., a sort of threesome?’ enquired Adrian. ‘You see, my chum Bertie here might pick up a few stylistic tips from watching me in action.’
‘Don’t listen to Mr Longcock, Mrs S., Adrian’s the one who could learn a thing or two from me in the shagging department!’
‘Listen lads, I don’t care a tinker’s fart who learns what from who. And I’m sure it’ll all be the same to little Fifi. And talk of the devil, here she is!’ Fifi walked into the room, a vision in bright pink bra and panties, stockings and suspender belt, and a maid’s hat perched on her peroxide bouffant hairdo. ‘Let’s go, upstairs boys,’ she said. ‘Who’s first then? Remember that the lad in number two slot gets the buttered bun.’
‘Well actually, Fifi, we were hoping to, sort of, take it in turns, if you see what I mean. If that’s all right with you.’
Fifi and Mrs Slagg exchanged glances; they knew from long experience that often Whippingham lads enjoyed watching each other on the job just as much as they actually liked doing the business itself. ‘Might cost a little extra for that, boys, but it’ll be well worth it.’
***
Fifteen minutes later, after the mini-orgy was over, the two Whippinghamians were getting dressed again, watched by Fifi who seemed not at all perturbed about having been fucked rigid at both ends - (although only briefly, such had been the eagerness of the two chums).
‘That’ll be an extra five shillings, boys,’ stated Fifi.
‘What?’
‘Five bob extra? What on earth for?’
‘You know what for.’
‘We’re not paying any extra. You were too quick anyway - we deserve a refund!’
‘Come on, lads, you know that back door action is extra.’
‘No fear, Fifi. We paid Mrs S. three pounds and we won’t pay a penny more. You can piss off.’ And with that the two young gentlemen prepared to leave, only to find that Mrs Slagg was barring their exit.
‘You’ve had your pleasure with young Fifi, gents, now pay up. Or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Are you threatening us, you ugly old bitch?’
‘I’m just saying that, if you don’t cough up another five bob, your head master, that nice Mr Elgar-Payne-Whatsisname, will be hearing from me in the morning. And you’ll both get a bloody good flogging!’
‘Which you fucking well deserve,’ interjected Fifi angrily, ‘not treating a lady right, you’re no fucking gentlemen, you ain’t.’
His honour insulted, the Honourable Bertram Buttplughe saw red (his family was famed for its bad temper - his grandfather had once pulled the head off a servant in a fit of aristocratic rage, and his own father had spent ten years in an asylum for trying to strangle a fellow officer over a gambling debt in the trenches at the Somme) and grabbed hold of Fifi by the throat. Within twenty seconds, the poor young whore lay lifeless on the floor, her neck broken.
‘Oh Lord, that’s torn it!’ exclaimed Adrian St John Longcock, looking aghast at his chum as old Mrs Slagg began to scream in terror.
‘Shut the old cow up!’ ordered Bertram and, acting on an impulse, Adrian smashed the old lady in the kisser with all the force of his manly fist. Unfortunately for Mrs Slagg, Adrian Longcock was the Whippingham College boxing and nude wrestling champion and the terrible blow broke her nose, pushing the central nasal bone up into her brain, thereby causing instant death.
Pausing only to retrieve their three pounds from Mrs Slagg’s purse, the two Lotharios fled out of the cottage and returned to the safety of their dormitory under the eaves of dear old Flagellators.
‘We’re in a jolly tight spot now, Adrian,’ observed Bertram sapiently.
‘Oh shut up and go to sleep, we’ve got to supervise the juniors’ cold showers in the morning,’ retorted his friend.
***
The Honourable Dr Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger, High Master of Whippingham, Ph.D.(Bongobongoland), B.Wk.(Oxon.) sat at his desk the following afternoon when his personal assistant, the utterly gorgeous Miss Daphne Kneigh-Trembeller, the six-foot-high holder of the highly esteemed Eastbourne Technical College certificate in High Speed Shorthand (as well as being the multiple winner of the Brighton “Miss Long Legs” contest) announced the arrival of two police officers.
‘Detective Inspector Richard Head, Bogchester C.I.D.,’ announced the taller of the two, ‘and this is my assistant, Detective Sergeant Bumm.’
‘Dick Head of the Yard, that what he's known as,’ explained the sergeant helpfully.
‘Belt up, Bumm.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Please sit down, my good fellows,’ intoned the High Master. ‘My secretary will bring us some tea. Lapsang Souchong I think, Miss Kneigh-Trembeller.’ Dr Reginald noted that both the detectives’ eyes were riveted on Daphne’s arse-cheeks as she stalked out of the room. ‘Miss Kneigh-Trembeller is the holder of a High Speed Shorthand certificate from Eastbourne Technical College, I would have you know.’
‘Didn’t she win the Brighton “Miss Long Legs” contest too, for three years in a row, as I recall?’ enquired DS Bumm breathily.
‘Shut your face, Bumm.’
‘Sorry, guv.’
‘How may I help you, gentlemen?’ asked the High Master, sweeping his magnificent yellow Bongobongoland University academic gown to one side as he took his seat at the priceless antique desk.
‘Well sir,’ began DI Head, ‘this is a delicate matter.’ He coughed and withdrew a small plastic bag out of suit pocket. ‘Do you recognise the handkerchief in that bag sir?’
Dr Reginald glanced at the contents of the bag and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What about that name tape on the edge, sir? Do you recognise it?’
‘Let me see…it says “Longcock FH”…I don’t know any FH Longcock.’
‘Does the college ask its pupils to attach a Cash’s Name Tape to all pupils’ possessions, sir?’
‘Yes, of course. Ah, I see what you are getting at, Inspector.’ He thought a moment. ‘Good Lord, of course, FH could well stand for Flagellators House, one of our constituent houses here at College. I believe there is a boy called Longcock at Flagellators, one of our prefects, a most pleasant young man, from a very good family.’ The High Master paused. ‘May I enquire, Inspector Head, what is the reason for your interest in one of my pupil’s handkerchiefs? I assume that the local constabulary do not send a Detective Inspector to return lost property.’
‘Unfortunately, there were two brutal murders in the village last night, Mr Elgar…’
‘It’s Doctor, not Mr, and the name is the Honourable Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger, Inspector..’
‘Quite so, sir. However, that doesn’t disguise the fact that this handkerchief was found at the scene of the crime.’
‘Good God!’
‘And it’s got spunk stains on it, and all,’ interjected DS Bumm. ‘It was found in old Ma Slagg’s knocking shop. She and one of her tarts have been murdered. Two young men were seen running away from the house afterwards in the direction of the school. Your young Longcock fellow is the prime suspect!’ At this juncture the delicious Miss Kneigh-Trembeller arrived with the Lapsang Souchong and the two detectives watched in admiration as she bent over to lay the tray on the table.
‘Nice arse,’ murmured DI Head to his sergeant under his breath.
‘There must be some mistake, Inspector, some innocent explanation. You surely cannot imagine…’
‘We must ask to interview this young man, sir.’
Dr Reginald reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet, placing it next to him, on the priceless antique desk. The two detectives watched this manoeuvre with keen interest. ‘I am sure we can come to some sort of agreement here to protect the good name of Whippingham…’
‘Are you attempting to bribe us, sir?’
‘Oh no, not at all, my wallet was just pressing on my chest a little, as it’s so full at the moment.’ And as the High Master stood up to pour tea for his guests, a thought occurred to him. ‘Good Heavens, Inspector, I am guilty of a most appalling breach of good manners! I forgot to shake your hand when we met.’ And he stretched out his hand to give the Inspector and the Sergeant his "special" handshake.
‘Now that’s a different matter sir,’ smiled the DI. ‘We never realised you were on the square.’
‘Fellow brothers,’ added the DS jovially.
‘Quite so, gentlemen.’
‘Sergeant, I think we can probably forget about that handkerchief, under the right circumstances,’ commented DI Head.
‘No problem, Inspector.’ And the Detective Sergeant looked expectantly towards the High Master.
‘Gentlemen, I would like to offer you a small contribution to the Police Orphans’ Fund. Shall we say two hundred pounds?’
‘Make it three hundred.’
‘After all, there’ll be quite a bit of work to make it look like those two biddies killed each other in a squabble.’
‘Several other officers will need to be consulted, you see, sir,’ explained DS Bumm.
***
‘Miss Kneigh-Trembeller!’ bellowed the High Master after she had shown the two policemen out. ‘Get me ‘Captain Lasher on the phone!’ And it took only a few minutes’ chat with the bluff naval hero, Captain Silas Lasher VC, the man who lost his leg to a shark whilst saving Geraldine, his ship’s cat, the much respected House Master of Flagellators, to ascertain that Adrian St John Longcock and the Honourable Bertram Buttplughe shared a small prefects dormitory and that the two young men had been in state of total funk all day. The High Master ordered Captain Lasher to bring the two boys to his study immediately.
***
‘Do you not realise the shame you might have brought on the school had I not intervened?’ demanded the High Master of the hapless duo. ‘Can you imagine it, two Whippinghamians on trial for murder at the Old Bailey? The publicity! The shame on your families’ escutcheons? It’s only because the coppers thought I was on the square that I was able to hush the matter up.’
‘We’re sorry sir, but Fifi was cheeky to us.’
‘She wanted an extra five shillings, sir’
‘An extra five shillings? What on earth for, boy?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing, sir.’
‘Being hanged for murder would have been a fucking sight more embarrassing, Longcock!’
‘It was for taking it up the backside, sir.’
‘Five bob extra was a bit much we thought, sir.’
‘A bit much? It was bloody good value in my opinion, boy. What can you get for five shillings nowdays?’
‘Can we go now, sir?’ Chorused Longcock and Buttplughe, hopefully.
‘Listen, you worthless little bastards, you shameful little murderers. You are not fit to wear the uniform of Whippingham College. If I had my way, I would hang you myself…’
‘As a matter of interest,’ interjected Captain Lasher VC, ‘the High Master of Whippingham only lost the traditional right to impose the death sentence quite recently…’
‘Shut up, Captain Lasher.’
‘Sorry, High Master.’
‘Listen to me, Longcock; listen to me, Buttplughe. You will both have to be punished. Punished dreadfully. It is only for the sake of the College’s name that you have avoided the gallows. I have therefore found you guilty of disgusting homosexual behaviour with each other in direct contradiction of my orders that all such perversions must halt. I sentence you to a Grand Double Public Flogging in Chapel after Evensong on Sunday. You will both be strapped nude to the Ceremonial Whipping Crucifix in front of the High Altar and you will receive forty-eight strokes each from me with the Black Mambo, the most feared cane in all English school history. Afterwards you will be formally expelled from Whippingham and your naked bodies cast into the moat by Mr Bogthorpe, our beloved Head Porter. Please tell your parents they may collect you from the moat at approximately 7.30pm. Also tell them they need to bring £400 to repay the bribes I had to give out to the fuzz.’
‘Come on lads, we’ll go and pack your bags,’ soothed Captain Lasher, ‘most boys survive forty-eight from the Black Mambo; think on the bright side, chaps, there are worse things than having your arses scarred for life. You should be out of intensive care in a couple of weeks, with a bit of luck.’
‘Get them out of my sight, my dear Lasher. And when they’re safely locked up in Flagellators, do drop by for a glass of two of wine with me and Miss Kneigh-Trembeller. I would wish to celebrate your new podial prosthesis as well as the satisfactory resolution of this little problem. I have a rather fine Chateau Coq-dans-la-Bouche Supérieur ‘49 which I think may tickle your taste buds.’
‘It is always an honour to share a bottle or two with you, High Master. I am eternally grateful for your assistance with my previous one-leggedness. And your secretary’s arse is always worth a good eyeful.’ And with that, the gallant Captain pushed the weeping lads out of the High Master’s study. To think that for twelve long years he had been a one-legged cripple but now, with his new plastic and aluminium leg, he could walk nearly normally! And it was all thanks to the High Master. He wept in gratitude as he bundled the two murderers back to Flagellators to incarcerate them before their dread punishment on the Sabbath.
The Hon. Dr Reginald Elgar-Payne-Bryngger, Ph.D.,(Bongobongoland), B.Wk. (Oxon) smiled in anticipation of the £100 he would be making on the deal, provided the parents paid up. He went and oiled his most treasured cane, the dreaded 42-inch Black Mambo, to ensure it would be fit for an extended bout of heavy duty thrashing. He would probably have to get a bit of training in to be able to administer two loads of forty-eight, he pondered.
‘Miss Kneigh-Trembeller,’ he called, ‘please fetch up a couple of bottles of Chateau Coq-dans-la-Bouche Supérieur ‘49 from the cellar. And some salted peanuts. On the assumption you will be joining Captain Lasher and myself, three glasses, I think.’ He gazed in adoration at her magnificent arse cheeks wobbling in her tight skirt, so much like two giant pumpkins in a too-small sack. He could hardly keep his hands off them.
Adding your comment:
WOW.....
Well done!!
