A group of lazy eighteen-year-old sixth-form school pupils are in danger of failing their exams. The Private Tutor has been hired to get them back on track.
Part one of the story is here.
I was studying hard and I didn’t think there would be any reason for the tutor to spank me again – but I hadn’t reckoned with Revision Class.
The A-levels started next week and the tutor had called all his pupils together for the first of two classes so we could cram as much as possible into our lazy little heads to enable us to pass our exams.
I had been doing quite well since my dad forced me to take on the extra studies with the private tutor. I’m not a stupid boy, but at eighteen years old I had lost direction a little and was falling way behind with my school work. Dad reckoned, correctly as it turned out, that if I didn’t have the self-discipline to study, some discipline would have to be imposed on me.
My tutor dished out spankings when I slacked and they were keeping me in line.
It was Saturday and I had to be at the Revision Class by nine. The address the tutor had given me was in Hazelwood Avenue, only a few streets away from where I lived. I reckoned it would only take a few minutes to get there, so I was in no hurry leaving.
We were instructed to arrive in our school uniforms: grey school short trousers, grey knee socks, white shirt, striped tie and black shoes. There was no way I was walking through my neighbourhood dressed like that, but there was a simple solution. I put on a pair of brown cord trousers, ones that my new girlfriend Sharon found particularly revealing of my bum and manhood, stuffed the short trousers and tie into a plastic carrier-bag and set off for school.
I found the street with no trouble. It was a typical middle-class suburban road, just like the one I lived in. But, I couldn’t find the actual address. I was expecting a school or a college or some kind of community building, but all I found was a row of expensive detached houses.
I checked on the bit of paper I had written the address on: number 42. I walked from one end of the street to the other, but couldn’t find anything that looked like it would be the schoolroom. I was late for school now and quickened my pace and retraced my steps. No, no schoolroom.
There was a house called number 42, it was hidden a little behind a wall, so I decided I’d better go through the gate and ring the bell to see if anyone knew where I was supposed to be.
The door opened the second my finger hit the button. A flint-faced man dressed in a crumpled track suit confronted me. He had obviously just returned from a run.
“You are late,” he growled at me, accusingly as if I had deliberately set out to cause trouble.
I was sweating from the heat of the fine sunny day and was a bit out of breath after hurrying to find the address.
“What the f**k’s it got to do with you?” It just came out. I hadn’t intended to say it, I just did. I do have a temper and sometimes it can get me into trouble. Often I regretted it later. The man gave me a look like thunder and pushed me in the shoulder towards a door at the end of a hallway.
“Get in there, this instance.”
I turned the handle and opened the door.
Bloody hell. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was a full-sized classroom.
There sat at their school desks were seven other Revision Class pupils; all of them my age, and, of course, all dressed in their short trousers and school uniforms.
In front of them stood the tutor, dressed in a traditional schoolmaster’s academic gown, with a mortar-board topped a bit unsteadily on his head. He had a piece of chalk in his hand and was writing something on a blackboard.
The schoolroom consisted of about twenty school desks. I don’t know which period from history they belonged to, but we had definitely travelled back in time. The boys were sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so a boy could stash away his schoolbooks.
Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.
The tutor stood in front at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books. Next to it screwed to the wall was a specially-constructed rack holding five or six crook handled canes of various sizes.
Around the walls were educational posters, including a map of the world, which highlighted most of the countries in pink. The floor was bare varnished floor boards
The tutor stared at me as I came through the door.
“You are late,” he thundered.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the place.” I heard a snigger or two from my fellow classmates.
“You are not wearing school uniform.”
I held up my plastic carrier-bag by way of explanation.
The tutor let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t say anything, but walked to the shelf behind his desk and picked up an enormous plimsoll. I don’t think I’d ever seen one like it before, it was one of those white shoes people used to wear for PE classes in the long-distance days before trainers had been invented.
He flexed the plimsoll in both hands. I could see it was huge. What giant’s feet had worn this for gym in the past? Did they really make shoes in size sixteen!
“Put down that bag and face the class.”
I did as I was told. For the first time I could look at my fellow pupils. I could see Harry, he of the knockout smile, flashing away in the third row, but I didn’t recognise any of the others. Apart from the undoubted fact that we were late teenagers dressed in short trousers and school uniforms we probably looked like any group of kids you were ever likely to come across.
They sat in silence waiting for the drama to unfold.
“Bend over and touch your toes.” Of course, I wasn’t surprised by the command. I moved my feet a foot or two apart and bending from the waist stretched the tips of my fingers to reach my toes.
He tutor had a perfect view of my pert seat covered in tightly-stretched corduroy. My classmates could see the top of my head and would be able to get a great view of any flinching I made as the tutor laid into my backside with his giant plimsoll.
And they were loving it. And, so, let’s be honest about it, probably would I if the roles had been reversed.
Whack! The first thwack of the slipper connected with my bum. It knocked the wind out of me a little, but I didn’t move.
The second and third smacks hit on my left cheek and then the right. My classmates were openly grinning as they enjoyed the spectacle of one of their fellows going through his punishment.
He gave me six whacks with the slipper. I took it well: I was getting used to the tutor’s beatings. I could hardly credit it, but before the tutor came into my life I’d never been spanked in my life – now look at me.
He told me to stand up and instructed me to leave the classroom and change into my short trousers and put on my school tie.
“And be back within two minutes or I shall give you a further six with your trousers at your ankles.”
I believed him. I left the room and in the hallway outside changed into my school uniform. I had just enough time to inspect the damage from the slippering. Both cheeks were bright red and I knew from experience that by the time I got home that evening they would be covered in bruises.
When I returned to the classroom the tutor was starting the lesson. He pointed to a seat in the second row and instructed me to sit. The desks weren’t designed to accommodate young adults so I had to squeeze my knees under the desk and slide along the wooden bench to settle as best I could.
It was going to be a very dull day. The tutor’s idea was to cram as much information into our stupid heads as would be enough to get us through the exams and it seemed that would mean lots and lots of rote learning.
The next half hour was pretty uneventful, the tutor droned on at his blackboard and we, for the most part I suspect, didn’t pay too much attention. Then the tutor gave us an exercise to do from a text book. This mostly consisted of copying things out and memorising them for a test he would give us after Play Time.
We worked on silently. Suddenly the silence was broken by the shrill eagle-eyed tutor.
“Rake,” he rapped out, “What have you got in your mouth!”
Bob Rake, a boy sitting behind me, responded.”Mmmmmmm!” He couldn’t say much more as a lump of toffee was firmly fixed between his teeth.
“Answer me immediately, what have you got in your mouth?”
Mmmmmmm!” Bob was trying hard to dislodge the toffee.
“Disgusting boy. Your mouth is full of toffee. Come out in front of the class.”
There was dead silence in the class. Bob Rake reluctantly rose from the confines of his seat, scratching his bare knee on the desk in the process. Ouch! That hurt, but it would be nothing in comparison to what the tutor had in store for him.
The tutor picked up a small, thin cane from the rack. He swished it and tested it, as if to make sure it was in good condition for a severe beating.
“Face the class.”
Bob was a fat boy and looked even more ridiculous in his short trousers, school shirt and tie, then the rest of us. His flabby belly stretched the buttons of his white shirt, the tail of which hang out from the bulging waistband of his shorts.
Bob faced us; we could see fear in his eyes.
“Which hand do you use to write?”
Bob hesitated, before realising the importance of the question.
“The right hand, Sir.”
“Hold out your left hand.”
Bob backed away, but the tutor grabbed him and pulled him forward.
“Do as you are told you disgusting boy. Hold out your hand.”
Reluctantly, this time Bob obeyed quietly.
The cane went down with a Swish! It was a savage cut.
There was a deep-drawn intake of breath in the classroom as the lash of the cane rang through the classroom. A spasm of pain passed up Bob’s arm, his hand closed convulsively, his elbow drooped. Bob let out such a Yowl! we could see the fillings in his teeth. He doubled up, hugging his hand to his chest.
“Hold out your hand again.” Bob hesitated and turned to his classmates with pleading eyes. If he expected any one of us to intervene in his punishment he was sorely mistaken. We were loving it: me too. They had enjoyed seeing me take my whacking, so it was only right I had some pleasure too.
Reluctantly, Bob held out his now swollen and scorching hand again.
Swish! Once more the fat boy received a stinging cut to his hand. He roared, jumped up in agony, bent down and shoved his hand under his armpit.
“Let this be a lesson to you, if I ever see you with toffee in your mouth again I will punish you more severely. Now go to your seat,” the tutor roared.
Bob stumbled as he returned to his seat, his face quite pale and his hand smarting and tingling.
We got on with our work in silence.
You can’t put a group of eighteen-year-old boys together in an old-fashioned classroom, dress them up as primary school children and not expect them to behave as they look.
It was coming up to mid-morning Play Time, where we would have a fifteen-minute respite from what was a really dull day. Most of us boys were getting very restless. The tutor stood in front of the class at the blackboard with his back to us, writing notes on the importance of something or other.
I could feel one of boys sitting behind me was particularly fidgety. He seemed unable to keep still for a second. I turned round and saw he had discovered that the inkwell on his desk, actually contained ink. Who knows why there was ink, I doubt if any of us boys had used a fountain pen in his life, let alone one of those sharp nibbed jobs that you had to dip into the inkwell every time you finished writing a sentence.
He was soaking a piece of tissue in the ink. What was he up to? Soon, we were all to discover. He was constructing an ink pellet and he was making a right mess of it. I turned back to my work.
Behind my back, the boy was preparing his plan. He made an ink ball from one entire tissue, and anyone who has ever used a tissue before knows one of those can hold an awful lot of whatever it is you care to heave into it.
I turned around again and saw the boy had chosen his target. On the other side of the classroom was a rather small, ginger haired fellow sitting alone at one of the single desks.
I’d never met either of the boys before and didn’t know them from Adam, but instinctively I knew they were more than acquainted with one another. And equally, I could tell who between them was the bully and who was the bullied boy.
He took up his ruler and held the ink pellet in place at its top end so he could shoot it at Ginger, who was day-dreaming about who knows what?
He kept one eye on the tutor’s back to make sure he was still busy chalking away at the blackboard, pulled back the plastic ruler and let fly with the ink-ball.
It whizzed. Unfortunately, it didn’t fly and hit Ginger. The boy had a rubbish aim: instead of hitting its intended victim square on the head, the ink-ball veered off course and landed at the tutor’s feet.
I breathed in and held it there. There was trouble ahead. The only saving grace for the boy was that the ink-ball hadn’t struck the tutor about the body.
The tutor stopped his chalking.
“What – what – what?” he exclaimed, truly lost for words. It took him a second or two to weigh up what had happened and when he did the expression on his face was terrific.
I couldn’t see the boy behind me, but he had turned quite pale at the realisation of what had happened and of the obvious consequences to his hide if the tutor discovered who had thrown the ink-ball. But, he had the presence of mind to hide the ruler, ink and tissue supply from the tutor’s sight.
The tutor stared at his pupils and we all stared back at him. Not all of the boys had realised what had happened, but it soon became clear to everyone. The ink-ball was a huge one and a small puddle of blue/black ink had formed where the soggy tissue had come to rest at the tutor’s feet.
“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor’s voice was not loud, but deep. He had command of the room and there was no mistaking the fact. He genuinely believed he had been the intended target of the attack and he was not prepared to let the matter rest until he had discovered the culprit and administered to the boy a severe thrashing.
There was no answer from the form. I could feel my face glowing hot. Would the tutor notice and misinterpret my blushing as a sign of guilt? I bowed my head and stared at my desk.
“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor spoke louder this time, his fury growing as he was met by silence from his pupils.
The tutor sucked his lips into a tight line. He strode to the top of the class and picked from the rack an awesome rattan cane. Then he faced the class again.
“Every boy will stand up!” he rapped.
Without question we all did as commanded.
“Every boy will raise his hands with the palms outward.”
I knew the boy was done for now. His palm would be as black as coal. He had no escape.
The tutor scanned the hands: it didn’t need a gimlet-eye to find the one covered in ink. He could see one boy did not have his palms raised.
“Hold up your hands at once.”
All we boys turned to look at Rawlings.
The distressed Rawlings put up his hands. The tutor’s eyes fixed on the inky palm, the inky finger, the inky thumb with a glare. His grip tightened on his cane.
“Rawlings! Stand out in front of the class.”
“I didn’t mean it for you, Sir,” Rawlings stammered.
“Stand out in front of the class.”
“I meant it for Trevor, Sir.”
“This instant, Rawlings!”
Rawlings left his desk and stood limply before the tutor. The tutor pointed to an unoccupied school desk with his cane.
“Bend over that desk.”
“I really never meant it for you Sir — it was an accident — I meant it for that tick — I mean, Trevor.”
“BEND OVER!” thundered the tutor.
Rawlings bent limply across the desk. The desk was not designed for a full-sized adult and it was low enough that he could very nearly touch the floor in front of him. He grasped with both hands a wooden support that ran the width of the desk, just a few inches from ground level.
To reach this position, Rawlings had to go on tip-toe to stretch all the way across the top of the desk. His stocky torso fitted perfectly across the length of the desk, allowing him to rest the groove of his stomach against the edge. In this position his bottom was raised high at an angle to receive his thrashing.
Rawlings had a chunky round bottom and in his present position his grey cotton short trousers fitted tightly across his bum cheeks. From where I was sitting I could see his shorts had an elasticated waist, which seemed a little snug and had the effect of pulling them that little bit tighter into the contours of his buttocks. The tutor would see clearly the outline of the boy’s underpants through them.
The tutor gripped the cane with a tight fist: it wasn’t only Rawlings who was going to go through a white-knuckle ride.
Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The savage cane rang across his backside like cracks from a rifle.
Rawlings Howled! And he Howled! And he Howled! You could probably hear his yells all over the house. No, all over the street. No, all over the town.
Swipe! Yow-ow-ow! Rawlings wriggled. The tutor didn’t care; in his present frame of mind he would gladly have cut him to pieces.
Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The tutor was too furious to care how much he was hurting Rawlings.
He gave him nine thunderous cuts across the seat of his short trousers. Rawlings did not take it well, he was sobbing, begging the tutor for mercy. But, mercy was in short supply this day.
We all watched spellbound. I don’t think any of us got enjoyment from this scene. Unlike the other corporal punishment dealt out today this was vicious. Unmerciful. Cruel.
I actually felt sorry for Rawlings. He had played the fool with the ink-ball incident, but genuinely, he had not meant it to hit the tutor. It wasn’t an attack on him and his authority and his right to be leading a class of nearly secondary school dropouts.
But, what I didn’t know much about Rawlings, but the tutor did. There was history here. Rawlings was a bully. This flogging was for all the boys at his school whose lives Rawlings made a misery every day. It was for ginger-haired Trevor who had suffered under Rawlings from the first day they both attended classes with the tutor.
Poor Trevor, Rawlings despised him and took it upon himself to humiliate him at every turn. Rawlings attacked Trevor because he thought he was “ginger” in nature and not just by his hair colour.
If I had known any of this, I would gladly myself have given Rawlings twice the number of strokes, twice as hard – and on the bare.
The tutor stopped after nine strokes. Rawlings was a broken boy. He lay over the desk sobbing with great convulsions of his body as he tried desperately to take in air.
“Stand up and return to your place.”
Rawlings stood limply in front of the tutor. Clearly suffering he crawled his way back to his own desk, where, until the bell went for Play Time he wriggled like an eel.
Other stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second