Max of the ‘Champion’ 3. The headmaster

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (Read story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. But, the experience opened up a part of the teenager he never knew existed and later that day he found himself across the back of a chair for a dose of the taws from his boss, the newspaper’s deputy editor. (Read story here).

Now read on …

Max was troubled and he had been since his boss the deputy editor Mr Arkwright took a taws to his backside. Every time Max was in the newspaper office he wanted to tell everyone about that Saturday evening. “He put me across a chair and spanked me,” he would say, “And I want him to do it again. Here. Right now. In front of you all.”

Max knew he couldn’t tell a soul. Arkwright would get the sack. He might get arrested. Max was only nineteen; Arkwright was probably old enough to be his granddad. They had had sex (of sorts). Was it even legal?

Max sat alone in the saloon bar of The Goat, nursing a half pint of mild and studying the Morning Bulletin. They had followed up on his spanking policeman story. Court charges were imminent.

“Hey, Max,” it was Alan, a friend from school. He waltzed over uninvited (there was no need for such formalities) and sat down.

“Did you hear about Old Man Draper?” Alan asked. Max had not, but he could tell by the huge grin on his friend’s face, there was juicy gossip on offer.

Draper was the headmaster at their old school, Alderman James Grammar.

Max took a sip of his beer. Alan gulped down half of his pint to wet his whistle. It was a long story and would take some time to tell.

“He’s only been spanking sixth-formers. Boys. On the bare arse.”

Max’s eyes gleamed; he hoped his friend didn’t notice. He wanted to urge more details from Alan. He didn’t have to bother; Alan was perfectly prepared to tell all.

“They found four sixth-formers snogging behind the bicycle shed after school one day,” he chortled. “Two boys and two girls,” he added hastily, in case Max thought it a better story than it already was.

“So the two boys ended up in the headmaster’s study and he said to them they were a disgrace and they should be hauled up before the school in morning assembly.”

Max felt his heart beat faster. A public caning?

“But, then he said if he did that then everyone would know how bad they were. It would reflect badly on the school. It’d be all over town. You know what this place is like, we don’t need your newspaper most of the time to know what’s going on,” Alan continued.

“So, and this is where it gets interesting, he said if they agreed to be spanked by him that would be the end of it. Spanked mind, not caned. They’re eighteen years old for God’s sake.”

“Spanked,” Max interjected, “like over the knee, spanked.” He made an exaggerated gesture of a hand travelling through the air connecting with a bum.

“Better. On the bare bum. He made them write letters of apology and to say that if he spanked them they wouldn’t tell a soul.” Alan giggled. He was enjoying this story very much.

“Rubbish. It’s not true. Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a pervert, that’s why.”

“So what happened?”

“He took them separately to his study and made them take down their trousers and underpants and bend over his knee. Then he spanked them. Bare arsed.”

Max’s cock swelled. He so wanted to be one of those boys. He pictured the headmaster’s study. Mr Draper in his tattered academic gown sat in a straight-backed wooden chair. Max is back in the sixth-form wearing his blue-and-black school blazer and mid-grey trousers. The headmaster spreads his legs wide. His own greasy black stripped trousers offering a perfect platform for Max to present himself.

Max unbuckles his belt and then pops the button at the top of his trousers. His Terylene slacks slip down his legs before snagging to a halt at the knees. Then, he slips his thumbs in the waistband of his shiny-white Y-fronts and sends then south to join the trousers.

On the command, “Over!” he eases his body across Mr Draper’s lap. His arms stretch out ahead of him and he places the palms of his hands firmly on the wooden floor. A dust ball blows in front of his face. Behind him, his knees bend slightly and the toes of his shoes rest on the floor. His bared bottom rests at an angle against the headmaster’s right knee.

Carefully, Mr Draper takes hold of Max’s immaculately-pressed grey shirt and bunches its tail up his back so it is well away from the target area. Then, the old man runs a fingertip along Max’s spine, tracing from where he left the shirt near the shoulders down to the nineteen-year-old’s crack.

He doesn’t enter. Instead, the headmaster cups his hands and gently traces the outline of Max’s firm buttocks; over the curves and down into the boy’s thighs.

Then, he lifts his hand about twelve inches above Max’s bum and smacks it down with some force into the hard flesh.

Suddenly, Max realised his friend Alan was staring at him quizzically.

“Don’t believe you. How do you know?” Max spat out the question. It sounded more of an accusation than he intended.

“My brother knows one of them. Alf Truman. He was in a right state; couldn’t stop crying for days, apparently.”

“So, what happened next?”

“Nothing. I think.”

“What did their parents say? Has there been a complaint?”

Alan took a thoughtful sip on his beer. “No, he’ll get away with it. Headmaster’s they’re a law unto themselves.”

Max’s glass was empty. He wanted a refill but the swelling in the front of his pants was so huge he feared every customer in the pub would spot it if he made his way to the bar.

Twenty minutes later and still horny as hell, Max returned to the offices of the Evening Champion. It was deserted except for Mr Arkwright, his boss.

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.”

“The Goat more likely. You’re late back from lunch. I’ve told you before about time-keeping.”

Max stopped in his tracks. Was he serious?

“So what …”

“So what, is that you need a darn good spanking, young man. That’s so what.”

Max’s face beamed. “Oh, yes please!”

“Come on then,” Arkwright gripped the teenager by the elbow and guided him towards his office.

“I was joking,” Max giggled, pulling himself away.

“I wasn’t,” Arkwright regained his grip on Max.

“Someone will see,” Max shrieked with laughter.

“So what. You are an indentured apprentice and I am your boss. I am merely exerting my right to discipline you.”

Max flashed a broad grin, his white teeth shone against his nut-brown suntanned face.

Arkwright was dead pan. “I shall be in pater familias. You are under the age of twenty-one and I will act in the place of your father.”

He opened the door to his office and pushed the teenager through.

“Bend over that chair.” He was serious. He indicated a low-backed easy chair with wooden arms.

With heart pounding, Max bent over the back of the chair. His heavy cock pressed into the apex of the chair. He heard a drawer open and close and before he could catch breath a heavy wooden object crashed into his left buttock.

He was a beautiful target. Arkwright aimed the clothes brush at the firm pert right buttock and let fly. The trousers hugged the contours of Max’s bum tightly and the outline of his underpants was clearly visible.

Thwack, thwack. Two stingers landed, both on the underside of the right cheek. Then another two on the left.

Arkwright wheezed. It was the heat of the afternoon and sexual excitement combined. The tail of Max’s shirt had risen away from his waist. Arkwright grabbed it and pushed it further up the boy’s sweat-drenched back, exposing an area of hairless suntanned skin.

Smack, smack. Two more whacks of the brush landed. The brush was small and the firm buttocks were protected by trousers and underpants. All Max felt was a mild sting. But it wasn’t the pain that mattered to him. The thrill was presenting himself submissively to the older man, allowing him to do as he pleased.

His cock throbbed much more than his bottom. It pressed into the back of the small armchair and any moment now, the teenager felt sure, he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

“Huff, huff,” he groaned as another couple of smacks hit him.

Suddenly there were voices. The main office door had opened. Journalists had returned from a liquid lunch.

Max made to escape from his prone position over the back of the chair.

“No, you don’t,” Arkwright wheezed and pushed the boy’s shoulders hard so that his face was smothered by the cushion. Then, the deputy editor continued to rain down smacks into the tight seat of Max’s trousers.

The voices quietened. Oh my God they could hear everything. Max’s prick throbbed harder. Any second now he would cream his underpants.

“Enough, Mr Arkwright.” This time Max succeeded in standing. His face was beetroot and his torso drenched in perspiration. His penis stood like a tent pole inside his tight trousers.

Arkwright’s face glistened with sweat. He wheezed with excitement. His own cock was rigid, but it had been many years since he had been able to erect as stiffly as Max’s. Oh, to be nineteen again, he thought.

“I’ve got to go.” Max hurried from the office and brushing by his astonished colleagues took the stairs two at a time and bundled into the gents’ toilet.

…

Two hours later Max sat in the garden of Alf Truman’s home. People who passed Alf Truman in the street never gave him a second glance; he was truly non-descript. His hair was a little longer than his mother would have wished, but in every other respect he was extremely conventional. Even the green cotton shorts and chocolate brown shirt he wore were mass produced and cheap. He probably bought them at the Co-op store, Max thought. The eighteen-year-old was thin and lanky. Max couldn’t see the boy’s behind as he was sitting on it, but the reporter assumed it was nothing to write home about.

Obviously, Max surmised, the headmaster had not targeted Alf for special treatment; he had probably just taken his chance when it offered itself.

Alan hadn’t got the story exactly right. It had happened two months previously in May. The headmaster’s “blackmail” wasn’t humiliating public exposure. Why would the boys be embarrassed if people knew they had been kissing girls behind the bike shed? They would have been proud of it.

No, the headmaster had threatened to suspend them from school. They wouldn’t be able to take their exams. No exam passes meant no university places. Careers could be ruined. The boys had no option.

“Why didn’t he just cane you?” Max asked, but he knew the answer already.

Alf’s eyes misted. His words sounded like they were coming from a long distance away. “He made me take down my trousers and bend over his knee. Then, he pulled down my pants and spanked me.”

His voice was hoarse. “You know, on the bare bum.”

Max shuffled uncomfortably in his garden chair. The thought of the boy over the headmaster’s knee was stirring him.

“How long did he spank you for?” Max asked, hoping he didn’t sound overly interested.

“I don’t know. Ages. My bum was a mass of bruises by the time he finished.”

Max gulped. He wished he had been offered something to drink. He blushed red. He had to ask the next question.

“Did he, you know … get excited?”

Alf blushed cherry red. Max realised it had never occurred to the boy that there was anything sexual in the encounter.

“No,” Alf whispered.

They talked some more. Alf had taken his exams, the school term ended next week and he would leave the school for good. There was nothing Mr Draper, the headmaster, could do to harm him now.

Max metaphorically rubbed his hands together. He had another spanking story for the newspaper. It was another scoop to go alongside the perverted policeman.

…

Max padlocked his bicycle. This must have been the scene of the “crime,” he thought, where the illicit kissing had taken place. He was at the school to question the headmaster and he was nervous as hell.

Slowly, he trudged through the quadrangle and into the building. He felt like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. Why? He had done no wrong. The headmaster was the guilty one.

Max had been a pupil at Alderman James Grammar. He had no special memories of the place. He had studied hard, played rugby and cricket, taken his exams and left. He had been no trouble to anyone.

Slowly, Max made his way along the passageway to the headmaster’s study on the first floor. Beyond the door of the room at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Max, emerged. He was a senior boy, a prefect no less, judging from the lapel badge he wore on his blazer. Max’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to bend over a chair to allow Mr Draper to swipe his cane across his stretched backside and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

Max paused, intimidated by the boy’s demeanour and a little excited by the thought of what had taken place behind the heavy oak door.

He gave himself a few moments to calm himself and tapped gently on the study door.

“Enter!” Mr Draper called from within.

Max turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he had created between door and door jam.

Max looked around the study. It was a large corner room with windows in the two outside walls, with Mr Draper’s desk situated so that he could see out of all of the windows, one of which was open to admit some fresh air. Standing against the wall was a bookcase and a padded leather armchair. Max’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“Ah, Maxwell Hall.” Mr Draper gave him a frosty glare making Max feel like even more a naughty schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye he could see that resentful eighteen-year-old sixth-former stretched across the desk, bottom high.

Draper beckoned Max with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk.

“Well Hall, we meet at last.” The headmaster aimed his steely grey eyes at Max like a weapon. Max blanched. This wasn’t going to plan.

“So,” the headmaster barked, “You thought you had managed to avoid detection.”

Max stood rooted. Puzzled. What as the headmaster talking about? Had he mistaken the newspaper reporter for someone else?

“Alderman James Uncovered.” The headmaster’s stare bore into Max.

Suddenly, the nineteen-year-old understood. Alderman James Uncovered. It was an “underground magazine.” An alternative to the official school magazine. The pupils had published it last year. It was nothing; just a bit of sixth-form fun.

Mr Draper’s glare burnt into Max. “Don’t pretend that you were not one of those behind that disgraceful rag.”

Max remained silent. It would do no good to tell the headmaster that far from being a leading light in the amateur publication; he had merely contributed one article.

Mr Draper continued, with scarcely concealed anger. “Any pupil connected with that rag,” he couldn’t bring himself to mention its name again, “has brought great shame to the school.”

Max watched perspiration run down Mr Draper’s face.

“Had I discovered those responsible at the time I should have punished them very severely indeed.”

The headmaster peered at the cane on his desk, as if seeing it for the first time.

“A sound thrashing …” he let the sentence trail off. He had been struck by an idea.

Apprehensively, Max eyed the crook-handled cane on the headmaster’s desk. Would the headmaster? Wouldn’t he? Did Max want it? Did he not want it?

Now, Max felt sweat under his own armpits. It was July and the height of summer, so he had left his jacket at the office and wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tie. With his black trousers, he could easily be mistaken for a sixth-form pupil at Alderman James.

Mr Draper hardly knew Maxwell Hall. He vaguely remembered that he had taught him Latin in the lower forms. He studied the young man standing before him. He had a fit, toned body; as befitted someone who cycled everywhere, ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning.

Had he caught the culprits at the time, it had been Mr Draper’s intention to beat them publicly. A special school assembly would have been convened. The thrashing would have been exemplary.

Hall was no longer a pupil at the school. But that would not stop the vengeful headmaster. He picked up the cane from the desk and remaining seated, he flexed it between his hands and then he wobbled it at Max.

The teenager was transfixed. It looked an awesome specimen. Saliva drained from his mouth. He hoped the headmaster could not read his excitement.

“Hall, had I discovered your involvement in that rag at the time, I surely would have caned you.”

He paused. Max shuffled from one foot to another, uncertain what was expected of him. Did the headmaster expect a reply?

If he had, he did not get one. Undeterred, the headmaster continued, “I see no reason why your punishment cannot be delivered here, today. You let down me, the masters, all the pupils here. You held the school up to ridicule.”

Perhaps in different circumstances Max might have argued the point. Yes, the magazine was tomfoolery; adolescent horseplay; but nobody was expected to take it seriously.

Instead, he remained silent, his heart pounding with excitement.

“So,” the headmaster rose from his chair. “I am going to thrash you.”

He replaced the cane on the desk and moved to the leather armchair. In one continuous movement he swivelled it so that its back faced the centre of the study.

“Stand there,” he snapped his fingers at a spot a foot or so behind the chair.

Still unable to look the headmaster in the eye, Max shuffled forward a few paces.

“Lower your trousers.”

Max had not expected this. The cane, trousers down. The headmaster caught his startled expression.

“Yes, boy,” he snarled, “what do you say to that?”

Max opened and closed his mouth but no words came. What could he say? He wanted to say, “Yes, please!” but that would sound absurd.

Max was on a roller-coaster ride of discovery. Before last week he had never encountered corporal punishment in his life. Then in the past days he had been spanked over-the-knee by a policeman; and spanked and then tawsed by his boss, Mr Arkwright. Only yesterday, his boss had smacked his bum with a hairbrush.

Now, a real-life headmaster was demanding he lower his trousers and bend over for an authentic school caning.

Not daring to catch Mr Draper’s eyes less he read the teenager’s true feelings, Max undid the belt holding up his Terylene trousers. Although his hands shook, he soon had buttons and zipper released. The slacks fell to the floor under the force of gravity.

“You will bend over the back of the chair and grip the armrests. Do not get up or move out of position. Do you understand?”

It was a rhetorical question, but nonetheless Max gabbled “Yes, Sir,” in reply.

Furtively, Max rearranged the tip of his cock under the elastic waistband of his underpants, hoping Mr Draper wouldn’t see it. It was a long way from being fully erect, but it was on the march.

He lowered himself over the soft leather back of the armchair. The crown of the chair was a little sticky. Had other teenagers felt similar urges to Max?

He pushed his arms out over the armrests. He sensed the headmaster behind him as his shirttail was carefully tidied back, almost up to his shoulder blades. Then he felt Mr Drapers’ rough palm rubbing across his bottom. He seemed to be smoothing down the cotton of Max’s bright red underpants, but he was also caressing the outline of the teenager’s firm buttocks. His bum was pert and hard. That’s what so much cycling did for you.

The headmaster smacked his hand into Max’s bum, indicating that he wanted the boy to part his legs further to increase the area of the target.

Satisfied that Max was now perfectly positioned, the headmaster picked up the thin cane. Max heard it rattle tantalisingly against the desk top. Mr Draper flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air.

Enticed by the swishing noise as the cane flew through empty air, Max lifted his head from the dusty seat cushion.

“Keep your head down and to the front, Hall.”

The headmaster ran the cane several times over Max’s drum-tight buttocks; finding his aim. Max gasped and screwed his eyes tight. He shuddered when he felt for the first time in his life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of his underpants. Why couldn’t Draper just get on with it? He could feel his cock swelling. He wriggled his body a little to press his penis into the soft leather.

“Keep still boy. Head low. Legs straight.”

Max settled. Then, swoosh! the cane landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a terrific cut, slicing both cheeks equally. The boy gasped; all the wind seemed to be knocked out of him.

“Hhhh, hhhh, hhhh,” he wheezed. His lips formed a perfect circle but he suppressed the yelp he wanted to cry.

Max heard Mr Draper hack a nervous cough, then shuffle his feet. Outside the study window birds were chirping.

Then he felt the tip of the cane touching him gently across the seat of his bright-red underpants. He gritted his teeth.

As if in a daze, Mr Draper measured his cane against the pants. He let it rest briefly on the chosen target and watched the teenager’s stiffening reaction of anticipation. He lifted the cane away, paused and leant forward to propel the cane forcibly into the cotton-covered flesh.

Then a third stroke sliced the untouched upper part of Max’s buttocks. Now he had three savage burning lines of agony. Max banged his held up and down against the cushion; his legs marched up and down and he buried his crotch into the soft black leather. The pain was building and it felt like his bum had swollen to twice its natural size.

The strokes came at about fifteen second intervals and before each one the boy held up his head and stared at the headmaster’s large study window.

Concentration on anything other than his sore bottom was uppermost in his mind. If he could absorb the details of the expensive curtains or the window frame, just perhaps, he could ignore the stinging pain in his backside and the throbbing in his groin.

Max still held on to the chair’s arms and waited for the next line of fire to scold his behind.

The headmaster glided the cane across max’s delightful mounds; from the top near the spine, across the centre of the rock-hard globes and into the crease between buttocks and thighs. He waited to hear the increased tension in the boy’s breathing before lifting the cane away, raising it to shoulder level and landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of the bum. Three times it swiped in rapid succession. It was like machinegun fire echoing around the study.

Max howled. There was no other way to describe it. It was a completely uncontrolled outpouring of pain. “Ooooooooh!” He gripped the arms for dear life and flung his head backwards and forwards, while his life’s breath was forced from him. He twisted his left foot behind his right and then his right behind his left. His knees buckled.

In the midst of all that suffering, his cock went limp. Had he creamed his underpants? He didn’t think so. He hadn’t felt an orgasm. Unless the agony in his backside had drowned out the ecstasy in his groin.

“You may stand up, boy,” Mr Draper moved across the study and placed the cane in a cupboard alongside six or seven others.

When he turned once more to face Max the boy had pulled up his trousers and was tucking in his shirt. His eyes shone. He had shed tears, but he was once more fully in control of his emotions. He had not had time to inspect his underpants. His todger was limp, but he couldn’t be certain the front of the pants wasn’t damp.

His backside throbbed like mad. He desperately wanted to leave the headmaster’s study and find a private place where he might explore the damage done to his backside.

That would have to wait.

“Well, Hall,” the headmaster sneered, “What was it that you came here to discuss with me today?”

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The clergyman is here

Other school stories you might like

Murph in the headmaster’s study

The old boys

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com