The cheating student

In my story The Helpful Neighbour, Part 1, I told you about two of my university students who cheated on an assignment. There was nothing much I could do about it. It’s almost impossible to discipline students these days. If I had my way they would have been across the desk in my office with their jeans at their feet while I whipped a swishy rattan cane across their backsides. But I could only dream: this was 2016 after all.

Then something truly extraordinary happened …



It wasn’t until the following Tuesday that I managed to track down the first of my plagiarising students, Jack Dash. I told him to report to my office at the end of lecturers and he did. He admitted straight away he had been helped by his friend Tony. Plagiarism. So what?: that was his attitude. All the students did it, no big deal.

He was right up to a point. I’ve no doubt that most of the students’ essays owed a great debt to Wikipedia; but Jack and Tony’s cheating was so blatant. And, when he was confronted with the matter, he couldn’t care less.

That was the problem with mass higher education in 2016: entitlement. Students paid tuition fees and they expected to pass their courses. Most of them wanted the university to cough up a degree certificate in return for little or no work.

I could have smacked the face of the smug twenty-year-old student standing before me. Actually, I could have caned his backside raw. It was no less than the brat deserved. In truth, I still hadn’t made up my mind whether I was going to make this plagiarism case official – could I be bothered with all the paperwork?

Suddenly, Jack’s mobile phone rang and without acknowledging my presence, he answered. I couldn’t hear who was at the end of the line, but the bratty student’s face immediately turned pale.

“Yes, but…” he stammered, but he wasn’t being allowed to get a word in edgeways. He turned his back on me, presumably so I couldn’t pick up on his conversation. His shoulders were hunched and he seemed to be in some discomfort. This was, for him, a very unpleasant phone call.

Then, he punched the button to turn off the phone. His pale face was now flushed deep pink. He was breathing a little heavily. Obviously embarrassed, he turned to me and said. “That was my dad; he’s on campus and he’s coming right over. He’ll be here any …”

He was interrupted by a knock on my office door. I called out to the visitor to come in. The door swung over and a rather dapper, swat, middle-aged man entered. He called me by my name, which was not difficult as it was written on my office door. He introduced himself: he was Jack Dash’s father.

Jack tried to disappear into a distant corner of my office to observe our conversation. His father told me he was visiting campus to check up on his son’s progress. He was a second year student and not working as well as his parents demanded.

Jack was sweating profusely. It was a cool afternoon and the air conditioning in my office made my office cold. He was perspiring evidently not because of the heat, but from fear.

His father asked me how his son was getting on in my class. Jack’s face betrayed the horror he felt. I was beginning to understand the relationship between father and son.

I let him have it with both barrels.

“Plagarism?” Mr Dash roared. “That’s cheating isn’t it?”

Calmly, I confirmed this was so.

Mr Dash turned on his heels to face his son, now cowering in the corner. If he had the tools, I am sure Jack would have tried to knock the wall down to make an escape.

“Is this true?” Mr Dash glared at the boy. The student was not so smug now. He had admitted the crime to me minutes earlier as if it was of no concern at all. Now, as he admitted it to his father, I could tell the consequences would be enormous.

“What did I say would happen if you did not knuckle down to your studies?”

Jack’s face creased with humiliation. “Dad…” he wailed.

“What did I say?” Mr Dash had complete command of the room. I watched fascinated. I recognised this scenario; I had played similar ones with my own children many times as they were growing up. Instinctively, I knew where this was going.

“Please dad,” the student’s face was bright red and he wrung his hands together.

“What did I say?” Mr Dash was not letting his son off. The boy’s humiliation must be completed.

Tears were being to form behind the once-bratty student’s eyes. “A sp…sp..” he struggled to get the word out, but finally it came. “A spanking.”

A broad smile cracked my face. Yes, I was right. Mr Dash was a father after my own heart. Jack saw my grin and looked away in terror. The full horror of his situation had dawned on him. He was going to be spanked by his father; and I was to be a witness.

Mr Dash was a man of few words. He gave instructions clearly and calmly. Jack must take down his jeans and underpants and lay down across my desk. And he must do so without fuss or delay.

I spanked my own children many times, even when they were over eighteen and young adults. But, never had any of them been as humiliated as Jack was at that moment. He mouthed a silent, “Oh, dad,” as a plea for clemency. But there was to be no mercy that afternoon.

Mr Dash took off his own jacket and cast around for a chair to put it on. As he did this, I manoeuvred myself to the door and without fuss I twisted the catch to lock it. I did not want unwelcome visitors. Then, I moved to the opposite end of the office where I intended to have a perfect view of proceedings.

Jack’s shaking fingers unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his jeans, and pulled the zip. He hesitated, hoping that his father might have a sudden change of mind. But it was not to be.

“Hurry up,” his father barked as he unbuckled his own belt and pulled it through the loops of his immaculately cut trousers.

I don’t quite know how to describe the colour of Jack’s face. It was as if all the blood vessels beneath the skin were about to burst. “Claret” doesn’t quite do it justice. It was a mixture of claret and puce.

The student soon had the jeans at his knees and once again he stood pondering what to do next. He wore snug-fitting boxer shorts made by Calvin Klein. I noticed they were the same kind that was sold cheaply in the street market near the university.

Jack inadvertently caught my eye and I flashed him a broad grin. I wanted him to know that I was going to enjoy every moment of his discomfort to the fullest. With my eyebrows I made a gesture that said, “Come on lad, get those pants down.” If looks could kill; I should have had a dagger in my heart.

His father was losing patience. “Pants down and get on that desk.”

Jack gulped in air and took hold of the elasticated waist of the Calvins and guided then over his hips and past his cock and balls until they rested on top of his jeans. It was obviously not the first time he had been spanked by dad. He knew exactly what was required of him.

He shuffled two or three paces over to my desk and climbed on to it. Usually when one associates corporal punishment and desks one expects to see the boy bending over one edge, his feet firmly planted on the floor and his bum raised at an angle to receive the lashing of the cane, taws or what-not.

But, Jack’s positioning was new to me. He lay flat on his stomach with his legs and feet across the top of the desk; his head buried in his folded arms. His bottom was not flabby, but it wobbled a little. I could see he had plenty of meat in those buttocks. It was perfectly positioned for his dad to stand alongside the boy, raise his belt high so that it tapped against his own shoulder and then lash it down in an arc into the boy’s quivering bum.

And, that is precisely what Mr Dash did. From my vantage point I could see the curvature of Jack’s mounds, covered in thin black hair. I saw the belt rise and smack down into the boy’s flesh. Mr Dash’s technique was to aim about four inches below the surface of his son’s buttocks and then lash the strap with such force that it smashed through the skin and sank deep into the meat.

I rather admired jack’s stoicism. Despite the ferocity of his father’s lashing, the boy kept his head buried in his arms. He gasped and gulped and there might have been a yelp or two, but apart from that he never showed signs of being in pain.

The lashes came so quickly one after the other that I was unable to keep count. I think maybe Mr Dash put twenty-four stripes across the boy’s backside.

The spanking would have hurt the boy; I knew that from my own experience as a spanker. But, I also knew that the belt would not hurt as much as other instruments that are available to deliver corporal punishment. If, for instance, Mr Dash had used the cane I thrashed Oliver with, I am certain Jack’s buttocks would be slashed and bleeding and would resemble raw hamburger meat.

I am certain Mr Dash intended to humiliate his son, rather than to flog him black and blue. If that had been his intension, I am certain he succeeded.

When instructed, Jack hauled himself off my desk and found his ground. He saw me looking at his dick flopping up and down. It was not soft, but nor was it hard. Blood had rushed to his soldier during the beating and it was trying to stand to attention.

The student turned his back on me and bent down to pull up his pants and jeans. This gave me a tremendous close-up view of his arse. Mr Dash was clearly an expert spanker. Even with the covering of hair, I could see distinct dark pink marks arranged from the top of the buttocks near where they meet the spine, across the curves of his cheeks and into the area where the cheeks meet the thighs.

Within seconds Jack was buttoned up and ready to go. But, his father had other ideas. There was one last humiliation. Mr Dash handed me his business card.

“If there’s any problem in future,” he put great stress on the word “any” and continued, “I want you to call me and I will come over and we can go through this one more time.”

I took hold of the card. Jack was desperately trying not to catch my eye, but I waved the card at him and the gesture said it all.

“I own you now, you little brat and don’t you ever forget it.”


Other stories you might like.

The fire-raiser

Never too old

Murph in the headmaster’s study


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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