The Tale of Freeman Fox

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

I first met Freeman Fox when I took up a post of junior mathematics master at Canebroke School. I wasn’t much older than the senior boys when I arrived. I was desperate for work. I had been unemployed most of my adult life and under the prevailing circumstances regarding state welfare I was destitute and near starvation. I thought myself scarcely qualified to be a schoolmaster but I truly had no choice. The school is hardly among the most elite in the country; indeed frankly it’s as close to the bottom of the pile as it is possible to get without being buried completely. I felt hugely indebted to Mr Fox as he had without any exaggeration saved my life. I am certain that I would have been dead of starvation within two months had he not rescued me.

The salary was a pittance, but the post came with a small furnished room and three meals a day so you can see just how much it meant to me.

I soon discovered that Freeman Fox was a most peculiar man. Perhaps, it is not unusual for a headmaster to be fond of discipline for how else can one contain several hundred boisterous boys? But, I soon learned that Freeman Fox was, frankly, a sadist. A thick, whippy curved-handled rattan cane was never far from his fist. Freeman Fox let the younger boys alone; he had many masters more than capable (and willing) to keep them in line.

Freeman Fox concentrated on the senior boys. He cared not one jot that they were eighteen years of age and in many cases taller and stronger than himself. He ruled with his rod of rattan. No boy dared defy him. Shortly after my arrival he beat all fifteen members of the school rugby team for some infraction of rules involving beer and cigarettes. Each boy was required to present himself across the back of a creaky-old armchair in the headmaster’s study. Then, Freeman Fox proceeded to lash twelve hearty stingers across naked buttocks. You had to admire both the fortitude of the rugby team and also the stamina of Freeman Fox who, as you know, is not a young man.

Within days of my arrival I was to experience at first hand Freeman Fox’s peculiar ways. It was evening and the boys had settled down for an hour of “free time” before lights out. I received a visit from Jack, Freeman Fox’s personal servant, who informed me that I should attend Mr Fox in the drawing room of his home. Jack is perhaps a year of two younger than myself and has facial features that make me think of a rat. His eyes shone malevolently as he delivered his message. My blood thickened.

Freeman Fox has a house on the edge of the school grounds. It is a magnificent pile designed for a large family with an army of servants in attendance. Freeman Fox lives alone in the house. I have no knowledge of his personal history; a man of his age would be expected to have taken a wife by now. She should have presented him with several children.

A housemaid showed me to Freeman Fox’s library. It was not unlike his study over at the school. A large fireplace dominated one wall. It was unlit, even though it was a chilly evening. I noticed that coal was piled in the grate and a full scuttle stood close by with several stout metal pokers.

The room was dominated by a large chesterfield-type couch and two heavy and very well-filled leather armchairs. A small desk constructed of an ugly dark wood stood off at one side of the room. Freeman Fox was dressed formally. In the school I had never seen him without his academic gown and mortar-board cap. Here, he wore a dark suit, with a waistcoat that failed to hide his expanding stomach. He reminded me of the men I had encountered when I went seeking Poor Law Relief at the Parish.  Freeman Fox, like they, had a self-satisfied air. Freeman Fox knew he ruled all that he surveyed and that would always be the case.

He sank into one of the armchairs and left me standing. I realised at once that in his eyes I was not a junior colleague on the teaching staff. I had thought that he had called me to his home to welcome me to the school and to give me encouragement in the tasks ahead of me. No, that was not his intention.  It was soon clear that he respected me no more than any member of that rugby team I spoke of earlier.

I cannot fully recall the exact words he spoke to me, but I can never forget the sneer that creased his face. I was but nothing to him. I might easily have been something that had disgustingly attached itself to the sole of his shoe. It was important to him that I be fully aware of my place in the scheme of things. He, Freeman Fox, was the headmaster, my master, his every word was to be heeded. He was to be obeyed. Without question. No matter how perverse his command. He did not use the word perverse. That is a description of my choosing. It is a very apt word considering what was to happen next.

After some moments in which neither he nor I spoke and I was left to stew with my own thoughts, Freeman Fox hauled himself to his feet. He was a large man, a man who had enjoyed hearty meals over many years. He towered over me. Me, hardly skin and bones. I cowered in his shadow.

He belched, and more. The stink from his gasses wafted towards my sensitive nostrils. With difficulty I stifled a retch. He moved without grace across the room. I stared hard at the floor, fearful. I had no idea of his intentions, but I could be certain they were not honourable. 

I heard a scraping screech as he tugged open a stiff drawer to a desk. There followed a hollow rattle as he stuck his hand inside. He wheezed heavily as he turned to me. From the corner of an eye I saw he brandished a heavy, but flexible cane. He swiped it through empty air; the swishing sound it made as it flew froze my blood.

He spoke. I could not distinguish the words. It sounded like a mooing cow. He continued to swipe the cane and wobbled it some inches from my body. His intention was clear. He pointed it at the chesterfield couch. “N.n.now ....” he stuttered, “I I I want you to ..” he struggled to form a sentence. It was several seconds before he was able to instruct me to remove my trousers and undergarments.

I cannot be sure what was most humiliating to me. The knowledge that he wanted to beat me with his wicked stick across my bared buttocks or the fact that I was not wearing undergarments. Indeed such was my poverty I didn’t possess such.

My heart ran fast. He advanced on me, his eyes flaring. His lips snarled. The stink from his mouth overpowered me. He babbled more words. I could not hear clearly. The room spun. My body blazed with heat although there was no fire lit and the room was chilly.

Spittle dribbled from the side of his mouth. He made no attempt to wipe it and slowly it drooled across his chin. My empty stomach retched. “Do as I say!” he roared, “Do it. Trousers down. Present yourself!” All the time he swiped the whippy cane at me, missing my body by only inches.

I swear from this moment onwards I cannot remember one thing; it must have been the shock of my situation. I know that my trousers were loosened and that in some way they ended up at my feet. As I say I wore no undergarments and so I was now exposed to my elder. If that were not humiliation enough I was quickly face down over the back of the old leather chesterfield couch. I am relieved that I cannot clearly remember any of this. I cannot begin to put into words my abject mortification. Prostrate across the couch, my haunches naked and presented to my tormentor. I gave myself to Freeman Fox. I was his to do with as he pleased. I was less than dirt.

I do not remember the pain. There must have been much swishing and swiping before the cane was lashed with great energy across my naked buttocks. As you can see I am but skin and bones and I could not have offered the headmaster much by way of a target. I cannot say for how long he beat me, but it is clear from my wounds that the thrashing was substantial. How could I have survived it?

As I say I have no memory, but clearly there was much blood. At first only on my buttocks.

After some time the flogging ended and I was left heaving, gasping, wheezing. Somehow, do not ask me how, I got to my feet. This I do remember. The furniture in the room appeared to be on the move, the walls closed in on me, my ears burst with the buzzing.

Freeman Fox stood before me, a huge satisfied grin upon his face. His eyes blazed, his face shone with perspiration. “We have not finished,” Freeman Fox said. I do remember those words clearly and the words he next spoke. “Now you must remove all your clothes.” He stuttered back to the desk drawer and after once more delving inside he emerged with a heavy leather strap. “This’ll take the skin off your back,” he growled.

I recoiled in terror as he advanced upon me. Once more his farts rendered the air. I screamed and ran across the room. He chased me. I dodged around the chesterfield. I climbed the overstuffed armchairs. He stood between me and the door. His superior sneer cut me.

So, Chief Inspector Morose, I picked up the heavy poker from the fireplace. I hit him once across the head. I shall never forget his startled look until my final day. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor.

Dead.

Picture credit: Kernled.

 

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