Previously in Mr Hennessey’s Boys
Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Timothy goes back to the classroom …
“Boys like you need to be punished or you’ll never learn. Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”
Mr Higgins waved his cane threateningly at me, almost in my face.
I scrapped back my chair and rose from my school desk and prepared for the order, “Bend over and touch your toes.”
I was in an actual classroom and Mr Higgins was a genuine schoolmaster and I’m pretty darn certain ‘Kennedy’ was a real schoolboy too.
Mr Higgins had put me in the detention class at [name redacted] an actual boarding school. The real pupils were on holiday and we seemed to have the building to ourselves. Higgins was a schoolmaster at the school. Either that or this was the most spectacularly blatant guerrilla movement ever. A stranger just moved into the classroom as if he had every legitimate right to be there.
I think Higgins had a beef against three pupils in particular. Maybe they gave him a hard time in his classroom and he couldn’t do a thing about it: corporal punishment having been abolished.
That evening I kicked off as ‘Turner’, found guilty of cheating in his history class test.
“Turner you will write out fifty times in your neatest handwriting, ‘I must not copy out the work of other boys in a test and then pass it off as my own.’”
It was incredibly tiring and by the end my wrist was as sore as it’s ever been; even after one of my marathon wanking sessions.
The classroom was a mixture of the old and the new. The lighting and air conditioning was definitely of ‘today’, but the school desks were from a time long gone by; those individual ones they had that opened from the front and had a hinge. As I was soon to discover the slope from the back to the front made an ideal platform for a schoolboy to bend across and offer his bum up for the kiss of the cane. Kiss? Who am I kidding? The SWOOSH! THWACK! OUCH!! of the cane I mean.
I was wearing an authentic blazer from the school, a rather natty royal blue number with yellow braiding. I rather admired it to be honest.
Mr Higgins had a traditional academic gown and again I’m pretty certain that it was the authentic one he probably wore in his daily life. The whippy rattan cane he was brandishing was the real deal too (I can give personal testimony to that), but I suspect it had to be taken out of mothballs for that evening, since caning in schools had been abolished a generation ago.
He looked through my lines and was dissatisfied. “Pah! You call this neat handwriting, Turner?”
“Stand up and bring your chair with you.”
He took my straight backed wooden chair and put it against the back of another.
I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.
They were six real stingers and I could feel the cane had made welts across my buttocks, but I’m pretty resilient and took it like a champion.
“Stand in the corner, Turner. Hands on head.”
That was end of part one.
There was no commercial break; I was just left standing, until Mr Higgins rearranged the furniture.
“Probert,” he called to me. “Sit in that desk.”
He then gave me a stern lecture about my misbehaviour in the history lesson. I was always playing the class fool.
“Take fifty lines. ‘I must always remember that nobody in the class is the least bit interested in my attempts at comedy.’”
It took me nearly an hour and by the end I was ready to soak my wrist in a bowl of cold water. Soon I’d be happy to bathe my arse there as well.
“Probert, you think you can make a fool of me, but you can’t. I am going to demonstrate that now. I am going to beat you like you have never been beaten before.” He said it with such conviction, I really felt sorry for the real Probert, whoever he was.
“Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”
I hesitated. I figured that was expected of me. Trousers down? We were moving away from reality, here.
“Now, Probert. Do as you are told or I’ll double the number of strokes.”
I stood in front of the desk, let my trousers fall and leant across the desk. The sloping lid made a wonderful platform, presenting my bum as the highest part of my body. Mr Higgins pulled the waistband of my white underpants tight. I winced as the cotton rubbed against the raw welts left on my buttocks, courtesy of Turner.
He laid six strokes into me, at intervals of thirty seconds. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was relishing every cut of it. It genuinely hurt and by slash number four I was groaning, but I kept in position.
He left me hanging over the desk for what seemed like an age, while he admired my tight buttocks. I don’t know what was going through his mind; was he lusting after the genuine Probert, or me? To be honest, I’d rather not know; sometimes with the gentlemen it’s best not to.
After a session in the corner, Probert morphed into Kennedy. I never had the opportunity to meet the boy, but I rather wish I had. He must have really pissed Higgins off. The lecture went on for ever; his rudeness, insolence, impudence and disrespect of authority. Yep, Kennedy did not like Mr Higgins. I wonder what he would think about this crazy game being played out in his name?
We didn’t do lines this time but went straight to the action. “Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”
I walked as instructed to the front of the room. “Boys,” Mr Higgins intoned to an imaginary class, “I want you all to witness this. I will not tolerate insolence and any one of you who has the audacity to take me on, will befall a similar fate.”
There was a glassy faraway look in his eye as he swished the cane through the air. I think he was beginning to lose it.
“Trousers and pants down, Kennedy. Bend over and touch your toes.”
As anyone who has ever heard that dreaded command knows, the bending over and touching toes isn’t the hard part. The hard part is staying down after the slash of the rattan has taken half your arse off. If you are bending over a chair or a desk, you have something to grab hold onto for dear life. But, when you are touching your toes, you are on your own.
My bum was still throbbing and quite scarred from my previous two canings, so when Mr Higgins flogged the first cut, and I do mean ‘flogged’ it into my bare buttocks, I yelped like a dog and shot up to clutch at my roasting cheeks.
“Over Kennedy. Don’t be a coward. Take it like a man,” he stressed the word “coward” in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. This guy truly hated Kennedy and wanted the real boy to be there that evening, but that was impossible, so I was to be his whipping boy instead.
I bent down again, grabbing hold of the trousers that were crumbled at my ankles. Slash two whipped against my arse, it came with such force I’m sure he was trying to cut my body in two.
Number three was worse. I was howling like a wolf. If there had been anyone else in the building surely they would be running to the classroom to see who had been killed.
Was Mr Higgins still in control of himself? How could I be sure? I had never called off a session mid-way, but that evening I came pretty close.
I took the full six and was in some distress; so, it seemed, was Mr Higgins. His breathing was erratic and his eyes were rolling in the back of his head. I’d never seen anything like it before or since. Was he in ecstasy? Like those religious fellers who speak in tongues?
In extreme agony, I dressed myself and waited for him to come back to planet Earth, but he was in lunar orbit and wouldn’t be coming home for a long time yet. I felt the used bank notes in my pocket and realised there was nothing to keep me there. I collected my bag and left, still wearing the rather nice royal blue blazer.
My backside was twice its natural size and when I admired it in the mirror at home, there were eighteen very distinct welts; six of them were as thick as my finger. It wasn’t too bloody and after I gently massaged ointment into the wounds the agony slowly turned to a glowing throbbing.
It is a cliché of spanking stories that the punished boy is in so much pain that he has to sleep on his stomach at night and he can’t bear being touched by his bed clothes. It isn’t like that in real life in my experience, but that night for me it came mighty close.
That night I couldn’t sleep too well, not because of the pain in my buttocks, real though that was. I was tossing and turning trying to work out Mr Higgins. I was certain he really was a schoolmaster at that boarding school and Turner, Probert and Kennedy were real boys, either his current pupils or from his past. Had his session with me been some kind of exorcism for him?
I was intrigued by the man and I longed for him to contact me for another session. Months passed, the memory faded and I had to accept that I would never meet the man again.
Then, one summer’s day I got a call from my agent Hennessy. Mr Higgins asked did I mind letting him teach a friend the art of caning using my backside as his prop.
The man is bonkers, absolutely bonkers. I told Hennessey, Yes, I replied and arranged to meet Mr Higgins at his apartment.
But that’s another story.
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