The headmaster and Hutchins

If I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late. I have to report at Mr Gardner’s study at four. I grab my blue-and-gold school blazer from the hook and head through the door.

I run all the way and make it with a minute to spare.

He is waiting for me in his study. I know the drill. Knock on the wooden panel, wait for his call to “enter,” take a deep breath, turn the handle, open the door, enter and be prepared to get a sore arse.

….

So what’s keeping that boy? I heard him arrive outside my study door ages ago. I am sweating a little and my breath is coming in short pants. I have been waiting for about fifteen minutes. I sit at my desk surveying the room. The study is a decent size but there aren’t many furnishings. There’s my desk of course. It’s quite small and functional, but I don’t use it for punishing the boys. I have an armless black vinyl chair that’s perfect for the job. A boy goes over its back and grabs the seat at the front. He makes a perfect target.

I’ve already selected two canes from my extensive collection. I’m not sure which one I’ll use. They’re both a little longer than three feet. They have curved handles of course; they wouldn’t be school canes without the curved handles. Both are made of authentic rattan. Very supple. Very swishy. I have placed them on a small table close to my desk. I’ll make my final choice at the last minute.

I am ready. And, now I wait.

There’s a timid knock at the door. I can hardly hear it.

“Enter.” Spoken, not shouted.

The door opens slowly and in comes Hutchins. He stands in the doorframe, unsure what to do.

“Close the door boy. Stand in front of my desk.”

He is perfect. His blue blazer with gold trimmed braiding is immaculate. He stands in front of me, not quite to attention, hands slightly behind his back. His knees bent. I take in the view. His crisply-ironed white shirt. The blue-and-gold striped tie, knotted tightly at his neck. His charcoal grey trousers have a crease so sharp you could cut your finger. His black shoes gleam.

“Hutchins, you again. This is the fourth time you have been summoned to my study since Christmas.”

“Yes, Sir,” meekly said.

“And, now we have drinking alcohol. You are a sixth-form boy. You know very well, drinking alcohol is against the rules.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then, why did you do it?”

“I don’t know Sir.”

“Don’t know Sir. That really isn’t good enough is it Hutchins?”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir.”

“Not good enough. In the past weeks you have been before me for smoking and for being out of bounds.”

“Yes Sir.”

“This is not good enough. You are a senior boy; you should be setting an example.”

“Sorry Sir.”

“You will be. Now face the wall.”

Arms still behind his back, Hutchins walks to the wall. Without being instructed, he puts his hands on his head.

I stay seated. Let him stew a while. A full minute passes and by now Hutchins, unsure what is happening, turns to look over at me.

“Face the wall boy. I shall tell you when you may move.”

“Sorry Sir.”

I take this as a cue to prepare myself for the beating I am to administer to the boy.

I pick up the two canes and bring them to my desk. I test one after the other for their whippiness by swishing them through the air. A good cane should bite into a boy’s bottom and curl around as it does so. A good stripe is one that fully covers both the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting.

Hutchins hears me moving about and I can see he desperately wants to turn again to see what is going on. But he resists the temptation.

Another minute passes. “Right Hutchins, let’s have you out the front here.”

The boy positions himself once again in front of my desk. Apprehensively, he eyes the two canes lying across the desk.

“Now, boy I want to make a clear example of you. Drinking alcohol and absconding from the school will not be tolerated. I shall deal with you severely. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“That will mean six on your trousers and six with them down. Do you understand?”

He swallows hard. “Yes Sir.”

“Right boy. Take your blazer off and put it on the table.”

He does as he was told, revealing his sparkling white shirt. The creases down the long sleeves are as sharp as those in his trousers.

I point to the black vinyl chair. “Now, bend over that chair.”

Hutchins is a wonderful sight. In one athletic movement his hips slide over the back of the chair and he grasps the front of the seat, a hand on the each of the corners. Blood rushes to his face, making his cheeks rosy pink. His other cheeks will be a darker pink by the time I’ve finished.

I pick up the dark yellow rattan cane and give it a few practice swishes. Hutchins turns his head to see.

“Face the front boy. You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on back here.” The headmaster had made a little joke.

I am nearly ready.

“Legs further apart boy. Up over more. Head down, bottom high.”

He pushes himself a little higher over the back of the chair, raising his backside a couple of inches more. Perfect. His grey trousers are stretched so tightly across the buttocks I can see the outline of his underpants.

I stand a cane’s length to Hutchins’ left side and lay the cane across the centre of his buttocks. Gently I tap the cotton trousers. Hutchins holds his breath as I raise the rattan cane until it is behind me, pause, and then bring it down with as much strength as I can muster across the vulnerable buttocks.

Whooop!!! A stinger. His eyes pop and he puffs out both cheeks.

I don’t believe in half measures. When I beat a boy, I do it properly. I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. The rod shouldn’t just skim the top of the skin it should bite deep into the flesh. I cover the whole area, from the crown of the bum cheeks to the middle.

I wait about fifteen seconds before applying cut number two, so he feels the full effect of each stroke before the next arrives. I watch, fascinated, as the buttocks jerk in a paroxysm of pain. This stroke seems to hurt much more than the first and I can see sweat forming at the boy’s temples.

His thigh muscles and bottom are tense but Hutchins is stoical. That’s the way I like it. My schoolboys should take it like men. I don’t want them screaming and shouting and jumping up and down. Stay perfectly still. At least as still as is possible under the circumstances and let me get on with my business.

As cut number four bites home, Hutchins’ face screws up with agony and he lets out a yelp. His knuckles are turning white as he grips the chair ever more tightly. Four thin lines are clearly visible in the dark grey trousers, each in parallel with the others and no more than a half an inch apart. I am an expert caner, let nobody deny that.

By stroke six he is openly weeping.

I pause for breath. Hutchins is finding breathing a little difficult too.

“Stand up boy.”

Unsteadily he rises from the chair, still facing forward.

“Face me boy.”

He turns around and stands in front of me, but he cannot look me in the eye. His gaze is firmly fixed at the red patterned rug beneath his feet.

“I said the punishment would be severe and I meant it. Now, take down your trousers.”

With his gaze still averted, Hutchins reaches for the buckle of his belt. His hands are shaking and with some difficulty he unfastens the clasp. I watch intently as he undoes the button at the top of the trousers and then the four buttons on his fly.

The trousers slip to his thighs revealing his tight underpants, as sparking white as his shirt.

“Right boy. Back over.”

Hutchins swivels to his right and flops over the chair offering up his bottom. Unbidden he spreads his legs and raises his backside high.

His shirt has a long tail and I take a moment to pull it up. Hutchins raises his body and I am able to get the shirt over the boy’s back as far as his shoulder blades.

I tap the cane, finding my aim as Hutchins’ body visibly flexes. Swishhhhhh! Number seven has him sobbing. Number nine crashes into the centre of his bottom. Though he stays over the chair, his feet start to beat a frenzied dance, as his hips twist and squirm.

I can see blood staining his brilliant white underpants. I never set out deliberately to wound a boy, but it is a hazard of the job. But, I never give more than a dozen at a session and never on the bare, so the boy is able to recover quite quickly.

The final two strokes are exemplary. The objective is to cause as much pain as possible, but with the minimum of exertion on my part. My experience tells me if you are able to land the final two diagonally across the buttocks they will cross the existing welts and reignite the pain the boy is already suffering.

So, that’s what I do. One diagonal cut from the left and the final slash from the right.

Hutchins is howling. There is no other word to describe it. His feet are drumming on the floor, but, to his credit, he stays in position, submissive to the end.

I put the cane down on my desk and go round and stand behind Hutchins and briefly survey the twitching buttocks in front of me. Hutchins’s entire body is spasmodically jerking.

“It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Hutchins feels so sore that he doesn’t want to move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

Hutchins stands up and begins rubbing his glowing backside, feeling the swelling of each weal. “Stop that this instance.” Startled, he pulls his hands away. As he does this I can see a bulge in the front of his pants.

Tears are flowing down his cheeks and a little snot trickles from his nose.

“Now get dressed. You are dismissed.”

….

I closed the door of the study behind me. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, trying (I suppose) to rub away the pain. It doesn’t work, I can tell you!

It was difficult to walk. My bottom throbbed like mad and I had an aching erection. I couldn’t wait to get home and rub away at the both of them. I picked up an envelope from the hall table and went to find my bicycle. I thought I was too sore to ride home so I’d have to wheel it.

After a couple of minutes the pain in my buttocks had eased a little, but not my throbbing erection. I decided to risk it, mounted my bicycle and in considerable discomfort rode home.

Back in my room I peeled off my bloodied underpants and examined the damage in the mirror. My scalded bum was corrugated with twelve distinct welts. Blood was clotting at the intersection where the two diagonal cuts had crossed the other ten. There were bruises around the edges of my buttocks where the tips of the rattan cane landed and they would probably get worse before they got better.

I was a right mess. That’s the big problem with a caning, it leaves marks and if the beating had been severe they could stay for a very long time. Spankings are best, even ones with a slipper or a hairbrush. They left bruises, but not welts or cuts, and cleared up pretty quickly.

I had a problem. I had a date to see one of my other gentlemen next Wednesday and he would not be happy if I turned up with a pre-bruised bum. They liked it to be lily-white, as it were; it was their prerogative to whack it red, black and blue. After all, that’s what they were paying for.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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