🌙 The Collage Ritual: Monday Maintenance at Taben’Rael

It is 5:00am on Monday morning. The sun has not yet broken through the hush of the eastern horizon, and the stone corridors of Taben’Rael remain silent but watchful. In the kitchens, the cooks prepare breakfast—ritual nourishment for students and staff. Yet before meal or merriment, there is reckoning. Monday mornings at the Collage of Taben’Rael have always belonged to the rite of Maintenance Spanking, a disciplinary ceremony rooted in tradition since 1801. This is not correction for wrongdoing—it is preservation, a weekly ritual of alignment.

From Friday at 4:00pm through Sunday at 8:00pm, students enjoy liberty—interrupted only by Church Mass at 11:00am and the sacred Prayer at 4:00pm. But Monday brings discipline. The halls brighten. Shadows recede. The dorm masters prepare to administer the ritual, and none are exempt—not even the elder brothers of the revered fraternity Discipline Matters. They too kneel under tradition, receiving their Maintenance from the Grand Master himself, Tony Vacherin.

This morning, each student stands ready. Dressed in their ritual uniform—tank top, white underclothes, white cape robes, and slippers—they move through the corridors with solemnity. The air is heavy with silence, and the light no longer dims. The ritual is at hand. Discipline isn’t punishment—it’s remembrance. And remembrance begins in flesh.

🕯️ The Monday Rite: Echoes in the Marble Halls

Before sunrise, the silence of Taben’Rael was not empty—it was expectant. Beneath the marble arches of the east dormitory, time seemed to pause as the ritual hour approached. The smell of simmering oats and spiced tea drifted from the lower kitchens, mingling with the crisp scent of candle wax and morning dew.

Dorm masters moved with reverent precision, checking rosters and inspecting uniforms. Their footsteps echoed in hallways that, just hours earlier, had been alive with laughter and debate. Now, those echoes carried a different charge: one of order. Of preparation.

The students stood ready. Clad in the traditional ritual attire—white robes hanging from shoulders like veils of accountability, slippers quiet against the floor—they awaited their summons. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hesitate at the stained glass windows.
From the west wing, the elder brothers of Discipline Matters assembled, heads slightly bowed—not out of shame, but humility. Even they, with honors and rank, would kneel before the rod. Their garments bore an additional stripe: gold embroidery on their tank tops, symbolizing stewardship through submission. Tony Vacherin, Grand Master, arrived at the hour mark in silence. His presence did not disrupt—it intensified.

“Let the light bear truth,” he whispered, and with that, the bells chimed. Ritual had begun.

🔥 *The Fifty Strikes of Memory

The ritual did not begin with names. It began with silence. A silence that thickened the air until even breath felt ceremonial.
Three Dorm Masters—Isaac, Aden, and Meno—stood before the Table of Correction. Their robes folded precisely at the waist, garments clinging to tension. The ancient paddles lay upon crimson velvet, carved with ivory script: *“Discipline begets Remembrance.”*
**Isaac gripped the edge of the table**, knuckles pale, eyes fixed on the iron sconces overhead. His frame did not flinch as the first swat landed—but by the twelfth, a low grunt escaped his throat, half swallowed by pride, half voiced in resignation. With each strike, his fingers tightened, the oak beneath him groaning as if absorbing the pain with him.
**Aden trembled—but did not yield.** His broad form bore the paddle’s rhythm like a storm testing the hull of a ship. When the twenty-eighth swat fell, he exhaled sharply—a gasp that echoed against the brass crests of the chamber. And still, he remained—spine arched, fists clenched, toes curled into the velvet runner below.
Meno did not cry. He sang. Moans surfaced from him like old psalms rising from a cavern—wordless, melodic, aching. On the thirty-seventh stroke, he bit his lip, blood blooming faintly against his caramel skin. The Master paused. Not to offer mercy—but to admire endurance. Then the final thirteen fell like thunder on stone.
Fifty swats per steward. A total of **one hundred and fifty memories** marked into flesh, soul, and legacy.
When the ritual ended, the Master turned not to the dorm heads—but to the seal on the wall. He lifted the paddle with both hands and whispered:
What is corrected is remembered. What is remembered walks wisely.”
Then the flame in the central brazier was extinguished. Not abruptly. Softly. Like pain forgiven.

Isaac's Journal – The Midnight Hour

Strike 1 gripped the surface. Strike 18 gripped me.

I did not cry. That was not the vow. But as I lay face-down upon the cedar floor of the dormitory afterward, I felt something ancient break open inside me—not weakness, but inheritance.  
They say pain has a memory. Mine whispered my father’s name. Then my own.  
I traced the bruises with my fingertips, like reading braille etched by flame. They say discipline restores alignment. I wonder if the stars above felt realigned tonight.  
---
 Aden’s Scroll – Rolled into a Candlelit Basin

Thirteen left. I counted each one backwards—to remind myself it would end.”  
 The paddle spoke in thunder and scripture. Not one blow lacked its own voice.  
 I clenched the table not from fear but from loyalty. My strength is not in resistance. It’s in remembering why we endure.  
My fingers bled slightly from gripping too tight. The candle beside me bends now, softened by the heat. 
So am I.

Meno’s Reflection – Sung into the Quiet

The strikes became verses. My body became parchment.

 
 I did not speak afterward. I sang. A melody that only bruised men understand.  
 Pain taught me which part of myself still hid from accountability.  
 The Master never asked us to repent. The ritual itself did that. The paddle didn’t humiliate—it illuminated.  
---

Meno Thrashed

 

Meno Trashed 

A BBFC MEMBERS AREA ONLY UPDATE:

 This lad refuses to behave and needs a damned good thrashing to make him buck his ideas up, and that’s just what he gets in this session. 

He might act as though he is sorry, but they all do that, and it makes no difference at all. 

The cane is laid on hard, and the welts are soon that lovely, deep, painful red. 

A super hard thrashing for Meno.

🔥 THE RECKONING OF MENO 🔥

A British Boys Fetish Club Exclusive

He was spoken of across borders—not merely by name, but by reputation. Meno, the lad with that radiant smile and sculpted frame, had mastered the art of mischief cloaked in charm. But charm runs out. And when it does, ritual restores order.

This session isn’t casual discipline—it’s sacred consequence. The cane, wielded like scripture, draws truth in welts across brown skin. Each strike, deliberate. Each mark, earned. Grown though he may be, Meno still learns hard lessons where softness once spared him.

British Boys Fetish Club knew how to handle Meno, and Dom Tom administered the ritual of correction to the backside of Meno, in a way of correction and discipline. This was not just physical—it was formative. Because legacy is not sustained by leniency. In pain, there is revelation. In correction, there is love—however hard the path.

Admired. Desired. Disciplined.

Meno’s journey is no longer whispered—it’s shouted in every welt, every red line of remembrance.

“The smile is addictive, but the discipline is timeless. Meno reminds me why this art matters.”

— Holland, Netherlands

“Watching him grow through the ritual is powerful. That beauty paired with correction hits deep.”

— Ray, Atlanta

“He’s a living echo of tradition, and still learning. I respect every mark as a message.”

— Marcel, London

DISCIPLINE STILL MATTERS. Love you, Son.

Meno Thrashed - Brown Sugar

British Boys Fetish Club

Josiah’s Renewal

 

“They said the seal was earned, not inherited. But my father wore it. And his father before him.”
“Three generations walked that corridor—one to correct, one to conceal, one to forget. I am sent to remember.”
“There are things they don’t teach: how stone echoes your breath. How silence judges you before any elder does.”
“The paddle rests not as a threat, but a reminder. Discipline without memory is cruelty. Memory without discipline is decay.”

🕊️ Josiah – A Legacy Interrupted
Blog Series: Legacy and Restoration

Josiah was no stranger to mischief. His footsteps echoed through the streets of France—untamed, unsettled, often unwelcome. People labeled him troubled, but beneath his rudeness and resistance, pain had taken residence. His father, Raphael DuBois, died too early. That rupture bred distance—not just between him and his mother, Amelie, but between Josiah and himself.

A Mother’s Discovery

Amelie didn’t abandon hope. Grief made her rummage. In the dust of Raphael’s things, she unearthed a lineage nearly lost:

- Mail Raphael DuBois – Great Grandfather, Martyr of the College of Taben’Rael

- Antoine DuBois – Grandfather, faded from the path

- Raphael DuBois – Father, honorable but gone too soon

The weight of academic robes, faded photographs, sealed diplomas… They weren’t artifacts. They were warnings. Invitations. A call back to covenant.

📞 The Call That Changed Everything

On Saturday, July 26, 2025 at 7:00am, Amelie picked up the phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the ancient number for The College of Taben’Rael. A place once sacred to her husband’s ancestors. She expected a secretary. Instead:

High Priest Achilles:

"Mrs. DuBois, it's ironic—I don’t usually answer this line. But today, I did."

"This school dates back to the early 1800s. We uphold our orthodox methods. We believe in domestic discipline and sacred accountability."

"This is not just a school—it is a sanctuary for restoration. We take in boys who are not just rebellious, but broken. We remake them with structure, brotherhood, and truth."

He paused. He was cautious.

“Your last name—DuBois. Did you say Mail Raphael Dubois?”

Amelie (voice cracking):

“Yes. I found records. His name appears across Raphael’s things. I thought maybe you… maybe you forgot him.”

High Priest Achilles:

“Forgot? No. We remember him. He was martyred here. His name is etched into our sanctuary walls. Mrs. DuBois… send over Josiah’s files. If this is truth, it will speak for itself. If it’s deception, our rites will know.”

Josiah – A Legacy Interrupted (Continued)

Scene Title: The Announcement

Series: Legacy and Restoration

🧳 The Quiet Before the Reckoning

It was late afternoon when Josiah came through the front door—smelling faintly of smoke and city pavement, jacket half-buttoned, phone buzzing in his pocket. He dropped his keys on the counter with that habitual thud Amelie had come to dread. The rhythm of home, mismatched to the man he was becoming.

She didn’t speak right away.

Instead, she moved slowly—almost ceremonially—toward the dining room, placing a stack of papers on the table. A photo of Mail Raphael DuBois rested on top, yellowed and bowed at the corners. The light from the window caught the ink like it wanted Josiah to see it first.

He didn’t.

AMELIE (softly):

“Sit down.”

Josiah tilted his head. This wasn’t her usual tone. She wasn’t angry—just... something else.

He sat.

AMELIE:

“I spoke with the College today.”

He blinked, half-listening.

JOSIAH:

“You trying to get me into school again?”

She nodded.

AMELIE:

“Not the kind you’re thinking.”

(pause)

“You’re leaving, Josiah. They accepted you. Based on the file I sent.”

His eyes narrowed.

JOSIAH:

“You sent my file? You went through my stuff?”

AMELIE (gently):

“No. I went through your father’s. And his father’s. And the one before that.”

(She points to the photo.)

“Mail Raphael DuBois. Your great-grandfather. He didn’t just study there—he died for what they taught. Discipline. Truth. Sacrifice.”

Josiah’s mouth goes dry. He looks at the documents, the names, the legacy he never asked for.

JOSIAH:

“So you’re just sending me off? Like I’m broken?”

She sighs, long and deep.

AMELIE:

“You’re not broken. You’re buried. And I refuse to let you rot in streets that don’t know your name.”

She stands and walks toward the hallway, reaching for a neatly folded uniform: gray shorts, white buttoned shirt, gray tie. Not punishment—preparation.

AMELIE (turning):

“They’re picking you up tomorrow morning. Pack your things. Rest. Pray if you still know how.”

Josiah watches her go. For once, he doesn’t speak. The papers on the table whisper louder than he ever could.

 Josiah – A Legacy Interrupted (Continued)
Scene Title: The Night Watch
Series: Legacy and Restoration

Echoes in the Dark

The house was quiet, but Josiah wasn’t.

He lay on the edge of sleep, half-dressed in tomorrow’s uniform. The gray tie rested beside him like a question.

Outside, cicadas stitched the silence with rhythm. Inside, memories unfurled.

JOSIAH (internal monologue):

“Why am I the one sent away? Why now? Because she found some faded documents? Some martyr’s name?”

“Mail Raphael. Antoine. Even my father, Raphael… Were they all just ghosts in robes? And now I wear their shadow.”

He rose slowly and walked to the mirror. His reflection didn’t offer affirmation—only confrontation.

The uniform fit. Too well. Like it had been waiting.

He opened the drawer, reached for the folded paper Amelie had left: a brochure from the College of Taben’Rael, brittle and dignified. Latin mottos. Images of stone corridors. A hand-drawn map of dormitory halls and chapel cloisters.

Something in him began to ache—sharply and holy.

Then he saw it: a scribbled note in Amelie’s handwriting at the margin.

“Josiah—This place does not erase you. It remembers you back into place.”

He pressed the paper to his chest. Didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Just stood.

His phone vibrated once.

A single text:

 Unknown Number:

“You’ve been marked. Be ready when we arrive.”

—Taben’Rael Transport Division

Scene Title: The Rite of Transfer

The morning mist hung heavy across the street as a gray van pulled up—unmarked except for a silver seal on the driver’s side: a flame wrapped in chains. Three boys sat inside, all dressed in similar uniforms. Silent. Steeled.

Josiah stepped forward, duffel slung over one shoulder.

Amelie was behind him. She didn’t speak—she only touched his back once, like a benediction.

The driver, bald and solemn, opened the door.

DRIVER:

“Josiah DuBois?”

He nodded.

DRIVER:

“Welcome to restoration. No phones allowed. No lies tolerated.”

Josiah climbed in.

The Car pulled away, tires humming a dirge across the asphalt.

Inside, no one smiled.

But above their heads, hanging from a silver latch, was a plaque engraved with a single word:

“Consecrate.”

The Collage of Taben’Rael

 

Collage of Taben'Rael 

 Friday Morning: The Call of Refinement

5:00 a.m., the heights of Taben’Rael were still cloaked in silence. Malaki and James lie deep in their dreams, their bodies bruised from purification, their minds stirring in the echo of vows whispered the night before.

Then—{Bang. Bang. Bang.}

Malaki jolts upright, breath short, heart already halfway down the candlelit corridor. He casts a glance toward James—still asleep, tangled in the white sheets like a boy half-forgiven.

Quietly, Malaki steps over and gently presses a finger to James’s lips.

"Get your butt up," he whispers, steady but stern.

"Five swats after breakfast. You know why."

James blinks awake, eyes wide.

"Oh shit! Did I miss the call?"

But there’s no time to answer. Both boys move instinctively to posture—standing firm at attention in their tight white briefs and tank tops, the uniform of repentance.

The door creeps open. Isaac stands in the frame, candlelight casting long shadows behind him. He steps inside like silence made flesh.

Isaac: "Good morning, lads. I trust your sleep refined you as well as it healed. You are to be washed and dressed—gray shorts above the knee, white shirt buttoned to the collar, gray tie, gray shoes. Dressed not just in uniform, but in expectation. You have one hour to reach the dining hall.

Be late... and your cleansing will be public.

Is that understood?"

The boys reply in unison, crisp and reverent:

"Yes, Sir. Guide Isaac."

Isaac saunters between them, inspecting the silence where bruises still burn. Then, with ceremonial swiftness, he smacks each of them on the backside—a gesture not of punishment, but of renewal.

He exits without a word, leaving the door wide open. The two watch as his figure recedes into the candlelit hall, swallowed gradually by the shallow darkness.

 

Owen Quick Reminder

Owen seems to forget very quickly and falls back into his wayward habits.

 So, the best thing to do is a good stiff reminder with no messing around, and make sure it is memorable. 

That’s why he is on all fours, presenting his butt instead of just bending over. There’s no way to avoid the strokes of the cane when in this position, and the look on his face says Owen is far from happy. 

It’s a great caning and hopefully one that Owen will remember.

Bent and Branded: The Rite of Owen

In a culture quick to erase consequence in favor of curated grace, Owen’s story intrudes like prophecy. His return to ritual was not born of punishment, but memory—a sacred re-enactment etched in the flesh. Fame had dimmed his discernment, and defiance became habit. Yet the rite was not about spectacle; it was about embodiment.

Owen had a gift for forgetting—his wayward habits resurfacing like stubborn echoes of mischief. Fame wrapped him in the spotlight, but never in wisdom, and so the ritual returned. There was no bending forward this time, no partial compliance. 

On all fours, Owen submitted—not to shame, but to remembrance. The posture was deliberate, offering not just his flesh, but his folly. Each strike of the cane etched a lesson deeper than words, the sound sharp and unrelenting, a liturgy of consequence performed over quivering skin. 

His expression, far from playful, framed the moment: brows furrowed, eyes dimmed with realization. It wasn’t anger—it was prophecy. 

The strokes didn’t punish. They reminded. Because for Owen, memory must be felt to endure, and the marks left behind became sacraments of accountability—ritual signatures on a body that once tried to forget.

 

The world may see Owen’s rite as cruel, but within this discipline lies restoration.

Not the comfort of forgetting, but the strength of being branded with truth. In a time when sacred rituals are dismissed as relics, his scars sing a liturgical protest: remembrance must cost something, or it fades. And perhaps that is what legacy demands—not ease, but echoes.

Owen's Quick Reminder

British Boys Fetish Club