St Martin's Boarding Academy for Delinquent Young Men was a place for concerned parents to send their worrisome 18-24 year old sons when nowhere else had worked. Failing grades, vile behaviour, truancy. All could be fixed at St Martin's Boarding Academy. Less harsh than military school, but still plenty harsh; if St Martin's couldn't straighten a man out, nowhere could. And, if you worked hard, a degree equivalent certification at the end of it.
Your first time being disciplined was always a memorable thing for a lad. A note sent to your dorm instructing you to come to the Deputy Headmaster's office in your summer gymnastics PE kit - that is, barefoot in shorts and no shirt. Obedient chaps would plod down the halls barefoot, waiting outside the office wondering why such specific clothing instuctions were necessary. Doubtful ones (and most lads were doubtful, the first time) would presume that surely they meant shoes and socks as well, and a shirt, and would wear such. When they arrived they would be firmly corrected by the receptionist.
"No, the instructions were very clear. Barefoot. Take your shoes and socks off now and hand them to me. Shirt too. I'll be informing Mr Parsons of this."
When the appropriately dressed lad was let into the room he was introduced to the Pommel Horse.
His bare feet would scuff the parquet floor frantically as Mr Parsons drilled into his open pits, wrist and ankle cuffs keeping him entirely at the disciplinarian's mercy. Depending on his mood, and the offense of the lad, the punishment could vary wildly in tone. Sometimes Parsons blindfolded the man and drove him crazy anticipating where the next stroke of his dreaded feather duster would land. Other times he would loosen the cuffs slightly and let the lad thrash his pent up energy out as he was mercilessly tickled. If he felt really sadistic he would comment on the lad's soles, dusty from the shameful walk to the office, and would say that they are in desperate need of a clean. As the deputy head tightened the ankle cuffs to restrict movement and scrubbed the lads soles ruthlessly with soapy water the captive would desperately wonder why he was being punished for following instructions.
The variations went on. 'Dancing lessons' where Parsons would see what funny moves the lad would come up with when the backs of his knees and thighs were softly fluttered on. 'Wind your neck in' where his neck would be feathered softly, unending, until he squeaked for relief from the focused torment. 'Shiver me timbers', where the feather would be stroked in a torturously slow, meandering S down the lad's back. Not a torture that got his boys howling, but the constant shivers and goosebumps and cringing when the feather strayed close to the sides or backs of the underarms was enough to break most lads. God help a man if his shorts had ridden low; to Parsons, skin on show was skin to be tickled.
Most sessions were 45 minutes - Mr Parsons was a very busy man! - but those poor first-timers who arrived wearing clothing on their backs and shoes and socks on their feet would recieve double that.
It was not a mistake a lad made twice.
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