The Private Tutor: 3

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. They are mid-way through a special Saturday “revision class.”

Part one of the story is here. Part two here.

 

A hand bell rang from right outside the classroom door.

“Alright form. It is now Play Time. Please leave the classroom quietly. Be sure to be back in class ready to start work in fifteen minutes time,” the tutor instructed.

I was putting my pens and pencils away in my desk when I noticed the man in the tracksuit I had seen when I arrived had entered the room. He was in animated conversation with the tutor. By the way they were both looking over in my direction I knew they were talking about me.

The man was no longer in track suit. He, like the tutor, was in an academic gown, but he was not wearing a mortar-board. He was a middle-aged man with severely thinning grey hair.

“Carstairs!” the tutor called to attract my attention. “You are to remain seated at your desk until all the other pupils have left the classroom.”

Meekly, I did as instructed. In no time at all we were the only three people left in the classroom.

“Carstairs, come here.” I swear the tutor actually beckoned me with a crooked finger and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the pair of them.

I wriggled out from behind my desk, managing not to bark my shins in the process and stood where indicated.

“I believe you have already met Mr Smisk, our headmaster.”

Before I could confirm this to be true, he spoke up.

“Carstairs, you are a thoroughly objectionable young man. I want you to go to my study and wait outside facing the wall with your hands on your head until I arrive.”

“Headmaster’s study?”  who were these people? Who is it that builds an old-fashioned classroom in their back garden, then dresses up as a headmaster?

“My study is at the end of the hall, you will see my name on the door. Go now.”

I did. It wasn’t a large house and the study was easy to find. It had what appeared to be an oak door and on a wooden panel was painted the words: Mr. T. L. Smisk. Headmaster.

As an eighteen year old I wasn’t very experienced in life but I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next. Now, was my chance to walk out the door and never come back. My father would not need to know; the exams started this week, I was probably as ready to take them as I ever would be. I’d never need to see the pervy tutor ever again.

But, I didn’t leg it to freedom. Instead, I stood outside Mr Smisk’s study, faced the wall and put my hands on my head, submissively.

Something was stirring inside of me as I contemplated the inevitable that was about to happen. I’d been spanked and caned and slippered by the tutor, but he had never made me catch my breath quite like this.

I know from that time at our house that Harry was turned on when he was punished, but it had never happened to me in quite the same way: although I did have one time with my girlfriend Sharon. It was a few days after I had been caned by the tutor. I’d forgotten about it and on Friday I went out on the lash with the gang as always. Sharon’s parents were away so we went back to her house. We snogged and got passionate on the bed and before long her dress was off and my trousers and pants were down.

Most of the girls think my arse is my prime asset, so it was no surprise that with it bare to the wind that’s where she headed. Then, she noticed something was not quite as it should be. I hadn’t inspected myself that day and didn’t realise my bum hadn’t properly healed.

“What’s this? Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

Of course, I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I played along.

“Oive bin a vewy nawty likkle boy,” I said in my best baby voice.

She didn’t need any persuasion. She turned me over so I was face down in the duvet and slapped my bare arse. Slap, slap, slap. She wasn’t very expert and I don’t know if she was trying to “punish” me or just give my globes a good rubbing. She wasn’t an expert but by God she was enthusiastic.

“You naughty, naughty boy.” She kept saying it as she slapped away, “Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

I could feel my cock stirring, but it wasn’t about to crow.

Then she turned me on my back, straddled me and went at it like a steam hammer.

Thank you tutor. Thank you. Thank you.

Mr Smisk arrived just as I was reliving the climax of my session with Sharon. He unlocked his study door and told me to follow him in.

The room was a revelation: someone had gone to great lengths to make it look like a traditional study, the kind of place that would have featured in the school stories of eighty years ago: Billy Bunter, that kind of thing.

In truth it was just an ordinary sized room in a suburban detached house but wooden panels around the walls helped take it back to a bygone age.

A heavy mahogany desk topped in red leather dominated the room. A leather Chesterfield combination of couch and comfortable chair took up most of the remaining space, but there was also a small bookcase, a couple of wooden chairs and a footstall. In one corner stood a writing bureau.

And, of course, in another corner stood a tall vase stuffed with a number of canes, some crook-handled, some not, and incongruously I thought, a wooden carpet beater.

The floor was bare boards, except for a large rug that was placed in front of the desk.

“Stand there boy,” Mr Smisk commanded, pointing to a place on the carpet facing the desk. Then he sat himself down at the desk.

He tore me off a strip. He said I was “uncouth,” “foul mouthed” a “brat.”

“What would your mother or father have to say if they heard you speaking like that?” It was rhetorical, I didn’t need to answer.

But I did have to respond to, “What have you got to say for yourself, young man?”

Not much actually. I mumbled something about I was in a hurry, nervous, it was out of character.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. He took that as his cue. “Sorry! You soon will be Carstairs.”

With that he rose from his chair and walked the few steps to the vase. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, because he drew out a thick, straight cane. It was dark yellow in colour and from where I was standing it looked quite thick. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle that school canes always seemed to have. This one had what looked like twine wrapped around one end, presumably to give the caner something to get a grip on.

He swished the cane once or twice to show that he was ready for business.

“Turn and face that way,” he said pointing to the bookcase.

I did. Suddenly I could hear voices from the other side of a window. The curtains were not drawn and I could see the study overlooked the garden. The rest of the class were going into the garden to play. I saw they would be able to hear – and see – everything that happened in the headmaster’s study.

Undeterred by this, Mr Smisk set about his duty.

“Take down your shorts and bend over.”

They fitted me so well, I didn’t need a belt. It was easy to undo the buttons of my grey Terylene shorts and let them fall to my feet. I was wearing the regulation white Y-fronts this time.  I bent over. He hadn’t specified to “touch your toes,” but I knew from painful experience this was what was expected and since I had an athletic body, it was no struggle for me to assume the position.

I heard him swish the cane once or twice for practice.

Then, he took hold of the waistband of my underpants and pulled them down, just enough that my buttocks were exposed. The pants didn’t fall below my thighs. Although my bum was bare, my cock and balls were still covered by white cotton.

“Carstairs,” he intoned. “I am going to cane you and I want you to count out the strokes after each one and say, ‘Thank you Sir, please may I have another.’ Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I heard the noise of the cane swishing through the air, and thought, “This is it.” Then the cane landed and for a moment I felt nothing at all. Then a terrible fiery pain spread all though my whole body.

“Ssssssss,” I hissed, “One. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Most certainly.” Swish!

“Haaaa, two. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Of course.” Swish!

I hissed, desperately trying to come to terms with the incandescent fire engulfing my bottom.

“Three. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Without hesitation.” Swipe!

“Yawooo!” That one was the hardest so far. The force of the blow made my legs buckle a little, my whole backside seemed to be on fire, but I still remembered my lines.

“Four. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Only too happy to oblige.” Swipe!

Another hard whack. The pain was pulsating through my arse and legs. I struggled to keep my fingertips on my toes. I wanted to spring up and clutch my burning buttocks, but I could be sure that if I did I’d get extra stokes.

“Five. Thank you Sir, please – may – I – have – another,” it was more difficult to get the words out.

Swipe!

“Yowll!. Yow. Yow. Yow.” This time I did a little dance from foot to foot. I half stood up, but not enough to be really standing. I hoped the headmaster would see it that way anyhow and not give me extra stripes.

He hadn’t said so, but I hoped six-of-the-best was my allotted tariff. Even though his rules required that I ask for more. “Six. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“No, Carstairs, I think you have had quite sufficient for one day. But, believe me boy if I hear that you have been using filthy language again, I shall give you a dozen. Stand up boy. Get dressed.”

I pulled up my pants to cover my blistered arse and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed away at it. I didn’t care if he was watching me do it. An extra wave of pain shot through me as I stretched down to retrieve my short trousers from my feet.

“Now, Carstairs go join your fellows at play in the garden. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you Mr Smisk.” Still rubbing my bum furiously, I left his study.

It helped to get out into the garden. I did some running on the spot and jumping up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV were always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. It does seem to work. I saw in the garden that Rawlings had much the same idea.

Still hopping and skipping a bit, I went to see if I could find Harry. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day he came to study at my house and I’d have liked to get reacquainted. I’d realised after we spent some time together following our thrashing together that I hardly knew a thing about him, where he lived, what school he went to: I didn’t even know his last name.

I saw him and a chum from a distance. They were playing catch with a ball: two eight-year-olds together. They seemed to be having so much fun. They were clearly “relaxed in each other’s company,” as newspapers of the time often sneered when they meant you-know-what.

I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy. The bell for end of Play Time rang at that moment sent us back to the classroom.

The tutor handed out test papers. The idea was to see how much of the lesson we had endured before Play Time we could remember.

“Any boy who scores less than seventy percent in this exercise will find himself across my knee,” the tutor intoned.

“Silence everybody. You may begin.”

And there was silence as eight boys set about discovering whether they even had the ghost of a chance of passing their A-level that week.

The tutor strode around the classroom, his hands clasped behind his back. I think he was trying to intimidate us a little in case we thought we might try a little cheating and help one another out with the answers.

The tutor might have been a good crammer, but he was a lousy actor. If he thought he was Mr Quelch the Master of the Remove at Billy Bunter’s Grayfrairs School, he had another think coming. I almost snorted with laughter at the absurdity of the man. I’m glad I didn’t considering the flogging Rawlings received earlier when the tutor thought he was trying it on with him.

All you could hear in the classroom was the sound of the tutor strutting around like Groucho Marx and the breathing of eight boys as we tried to figure out the answer to the test.

After a short while the tutor must have become bored walking up and down and returned to his own desk.

The test was hard, but I was coping with it alright. I was about half way through when the tutor disrupted us again.

“Sergeant! What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Yes you were. You were trying to look at Clifford’s paper.”

Clifford was the boy seated next to him. Aware that he might be drawn into an argument with the tutor that would end in only one way – a very sore backside, Clifford said, “It’s nothing to do with me Sir. I’m not helping Sergeant, Sir.”

The tutor left his desk and strode to the front of the class.

“Both of you boys stand up this instance.”

Sergeant and Clifford rose from their seats. The rest of us stopped writing and watched on – hoping this distraction would be too good to miss.

“Come to the front of the class, both of you and bring your test papers with you.”

“It’s nothing to do with me, Sir,” Clifford protested, but he still obeyed the instruction and made his way from his desk. Sergeant took the same decision.

The tutor grabbed the test papers from the boys and examined them.

“Sergeant, you have been cheating. You have copied from Clifford.”

Sergeant could not see how the tutor could possibly tell, but he didn’t want to raise an argument with him about it – because it was true, he had copied.

“Clifford, return to your seat.” A relived Clifford skedaddled back to his desk, leaving Sergeant to face the might of the tutor’s wrath.

“Stand there, Sergeant. Face the class.”

We knew he was going to cop it from the tutor that was for certain. The only matter in doubt was what instrument of punishment would the tutor employ?

We soon found out. He turned his back on the class and returned to his desk where he opened a drawer and extracted a thick, dark brown Lochgelly taws. I could see Sergeant’s wide brown eyes start to water, even from my place in the second row.

It looked a monstrous weapon. It must have been a foot-and-a-half long and was made of shiny leather. It had a handle which took up about a quarter of its length and the “business end” was shaped into two tails.

“There is no value in cheating in a test, Sergeant; you will be the only loser in the end. You are an exceedingly stupid boy. What are you?”

“An exceedingly stupid boy,” Sergeant stumbled over the word “exceedingly,” perhaps demonstrating that indeed stupidity was one of his major characteristics.

The tutor held the taws tightly in his hand and swished it about in practice. Then he stood directly in front of Sergeant: they were eye to eye, and he was ready to go.

“Right Sergeant up with your hands, palms flat.” The boy raised his hand, one on top of the other, ready for the first blow. Unlike with Bob Rake, the tutor did not inquire which of his hands he used when writing. Sergeant must be getting a double dose.

The tutor raised the taws high and took it back over his right shoulder. Then he brought it crashing down on the palm of Sergeant’s hand with maximum force. The blow was awesome – the pain shot through his hands and the force of the blow made him drop them to his side, rub them together, wiggle them about as if he were dementedly waving to a crowd and blow onto his palms.

“Up boy – get those hands up,” the tutor barked.

With considerable fortitude, I thought, he did so. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one Sergeant repeated his hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other.

Upon instruction, he slowly and painfully swapped the hands over. His right hand was crimson from the belting so far and his hand was numb.

The tutor gave him three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. Sergeant’s eyes were moist but he wasn’t openly crying. It must have been excruciatingly painful, and his body was shivering as he doubled up with his hands under his armpits.

“Sit here at this desk at the front Sergeant and finish your test,” the tutor instructed as he returned to his own desk. Did I imagine it or was the tutor a little over-satisfied that his thick leather taws had Sergeant dancing a Scottish reel in agony? Sergeant was soon to discover that with a strapping from the taws, the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in.

….

The test was over and the tutor marked the papers and distributed them among the boys. I was relieved to see I had passed with eighty-eight percent. I was home and dry. I’d always known I wasn’t stupid: in fact I was quite academically able, but I had lost my focus a lot and needed to be redirected. That’s how I’d ended up with the tutor. It had been his “old fashioned methods” of corporal punishment that had kept me on the straight and narrow. Bring on the A-levels.

“Only one boy has failed this test.” The tutor was speaking. “Harrison, stand up.” Over to my left I saw Harry spring to his feet.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Fifty-two percent. You are either an incredibly stupid little boy, or incredibly lazy. Which is it Harrison?”

Harry had no answer to that. But, I suspected that I had. From our time working together, I knew Harry was as bright as a button. I’d always assumed he was just like me, lacking focus. But, I also knew from that evening Harry got turned on by being walloped. The tutor has threatened an over-the-knee spanking to any boy who failed the test. Had Harry engineered this?

“Come out to the front, Harrison.”

Eagerly, I thought, Harry left his desk.

Meanwhile, the tutor returned to his the shelf behind his desk and picked up a small spanking paddle. He lifted the chair from behind his desk and carried it placing squarely in spot in front of his pupils. Every boy present would get a clear view of this.

The tutor sat in the straight backed wooden chair, feet planted firmly on the ground, but with his knees closed together.

“Stand there boy!” he clicked his fingers to indicate a point a foot or so from his right side. The eighteen-year-old boy obeyed.

“Trousers down.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. Slowly and carefully, Harry undid the button of his grey school short trousers, slid down the zip, and with the merest flick of his wrists sent them flowing to the floor. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, legs straight, ready for the next instruction, which wasn’t long in coming.

“Bend over my knee boy!”

The tutor’s knees were so close together that Harry had no choice but to lay across them with his face and his huge shock of curly hair almost touching the floorboards, his bottom was high over the tutor’s thigh with his legs behind at a forty-five degree angle. Harry shifted his position a little. He was raising his pert bum higher.

It was as if Harry was saying to the tutor, “Yes, I am submissive. I deserve this spanking. Here, take my bum: do your worst.”

The tutor smoothed Harry white Y-fronts across his buttocks. I’d noticed the last time I saw him beaten that his underpants were brilliant white: whiter than any whiteness I had seen before or since. He should be in a washing powder commercial on television.

The tutor took a firm grip on his paddle. It was almost square, about the size of a paperback novel, much smaller than the one he had blistered my own backside with when we met for our first class. This paddle had nine holes drilled into it, presumably to reduce the wind resistance as the tutor whacked it through the air.

He brought it down on Harry’s left cheek with a loud crack. It wasn’t the hardest blow he could have given, but the sound of wood connecting with flesh echoed round the classroom. The tutor repeated the stroke with moderate force three more times: another one on the right cheek, then two on the left.

Harry felt his whole bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung, but the pain wasn’t excruciating. He was a regular naughty boy and what the tutor was dishing out was still within his comfort zone.

The tutor laid on some more whacks, increasing their strength as he went along. Harry maintained his bum’s high position throughout.

The tutor paused after a dozen. I thought he would probably take Harry’s Y-fronts down at some point and deliver a few on the bare, but he never did. Maybe the tutor knew Harry as well as I did and didn’t want to risk having his nice academic gown and trousers soiled.

“You need to buck your ideas up a bit, boy!” the tutor scolded and brought another dozen steady rhythmic rising and falling swats of the paddle down into Harry’s buttocks.

Harry definitely felt those, his bum was throbbing. His breathing was heavy, but he didn’t make any other noise as the tutor went about his task.

Then it was over.

“Stand up boy.”

Harry rose, he face was as beetroot red as I assumed his buttocks to be.

His hands went to sooth his burning bottom, rubbing against the smooth white cotton of his underwear. He turned his back on the classroom of boys (to hide from us his raging erection?) and pulled up his short trousers.

The tutor ordered him to return to his seat.

A bell rang outside the door.

“All right boys, that’s today’s revision class over. Good luck in the exam this week. Please be here the same time next Saturday for the next class. Please arrive fully dressed in school uniform and do not be late.

“Class dismissed.”

The Private Tutor, Episode 4 is here.

 

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