Caned at college

It made perfect sense to introduce corporal punishment into Britain’s sixth-form colleges. The cane had been brought back into schools two years earlier and many sixth-formers had been ordered to present their backsides for a traditional six-of-the-best in the time since.

Parents and the public generally welcomed the new disciplinary regime. There was talk that soon courts would be allowed to sentence young criminals to thrashings. An on-line petition collected hundreds of thousands of signatures for the beatings to be broadcast on television.

Sixth-form colleges catered for youngsters up to the age of nineteen who had attended schools that did not have their own sixth forms. The students were no different from their counterparts who still attended school.

Downside College took the opportunity of the new spirit in the air to introduce a dress code for students. The senior staff had wanted to have formal uniforms, with blazers and ties, but parents baulked at the cost of this. Instead jeans and tee-shirts were banned and male students had to wear proper trousers, shirts with collars, ties, jackets and smart shoes. Some of the dandies among them took to wearing sharp mohair suits, imitating the look of the Mods from the nineteen-sixties.

Not all the students obeyed the new rules.

Ian Stranger stood head bowed. He stared intently at the beige carpet beneath his feet. His heart raced and he was finding it hard to catch his breath.

Mr Troughton, the college principal, sat behind his desk. He was a youngish man, with a florid fleshy face and receding sandy hair. Fat rolled over the waistband of his trousers. His crisp white shirt was wet under the armpits, even though the room itself was quite cold.

“You know the rules about dress, Stranger.” It was a statement rather than a question. The principal pursed his lips and pressed the fingers of his hands together as if in prayer.

Ian continued staring. Blood was pumping so fast through his body he feared his ears would pop.

“You were all told that if you came to college improperly dressed you would be sent home to change. If you did it again you would get a caning.” He spoke quietly. He had not expected a student to disobey this rule. Why on earth would they, he thought. The dress code was hardly onerous. Every student would have the correct clothes in their wardrobe at home. It was no trouble to wear them.

No, Mr Troughton pondered silently, this was not about the dress code. Stranger was deliberately flouting the rules. He thought they shouldn’t apply to him. It was rebellion of sorts. That could not be tolerated. He must be beaten severely. For his own good and to deter others.

Ian was eighteen years old. Soon he would pass his A-level exams with flying colours and go on to university. He was a good, able student. But, he was distracted.

He spent much of his time on-line seeking out videos and stories about corporal punishment in schools. His favourites were the stories about St FIGS – St Francis Independent Grammar School. They were set in the nineteen-sixties. St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional uniforms and traditional discipline.

He loved to read them and fantasise that he was one of the sixth-formers in the headmaster’s study, bent over the armchair, his trousers at his ankles, his pants at his knees, while Dr Henderson-Smith swiped a dragon cane with considerable force across his bared buttocks.

Ian had gone so far as to get himself a pair of school short trousers on the Internet. They were the real deal with sharp creases and they came to just above his knees. He got long socks, a grey shirt and old-fashioned white Y-front underpants from Marks & Spencer. He was too scared to wear his school uniform in public, but when the rest of his family were out of the flat he loved to dress up and play the naughty schoolboy, bending over the back of an armchair pretending it was a headmaster’s study.

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It was one of the St FIGS’ stories that gave him the idea. The headmaster had banned snowball fighting. The penalty for disobedience: the cane. One eighteen-year-old chucked some snow. He was caught.

It turned out the boy had never been caned before and this was his way of finding out what it was like.

The dress code was Ian Stranger’s snowball. Now, he too would get his first-ever caning.

Downside was not as grand as St FIGS. Where the grammar school had oak panelling, the college had chipboard and pine. Principal Troughton had no academic gown or mortar-board cap. But, he had one crucial prop: an authentic crook-handled school cane.

Principal Troughton sighed deeply as if he were single-handedly carrying all the troubles of the rapidly changing world on his shoulders.

“You cannot say that you were not warned, Stranger,” he looked at the slim dark-haired boy standing before him. The teenager’s face was scarlet and perspiration dampened his forehead. The boy must be terrified of the beating he was about to get, Troughton thought.

The principal hauled himself from his chair and waddled to the opposite end of the room. Ian Stranger watched in anticipation as Troughton pulled open the drawer of a table. Ian could not see inside, but he heard the distinctive rattle of several whippy canes as they rolled around.

Troughton was an enthusiastic supporter of the new law on caning. He had known for years that youngsters did not know right from wrong. Boundaries were no longer set. They were allowed to get away with anything. They got high on drugs, vandalised the town, terrorised ordinary descent people on the streets.

He believed in corporal punishment. He always had done. But in the past he had remained silent. To advocate the cane would have been career suicide. Now, public opinion had changed and Principal Troughton was on the winning side.

He reached into the drawer and extracted a thin yellow cane. He peered at it as if he had never seen it before, even though the weapon in question had seen action only an hour earlier. But, this time, he thought, it would not be up to the job. He slid it back in the drawer and fished around until he found what he was looking for.

It was dark brown, more than three feet long and as thick as a little finger. There were notches every three or four inches along its length. These would cause considerable bruising to a boy’s backside and bleeding if delivered across bared buttocks.

Principal Troughton flexed the cane between his two hands. Despite its thickness it curved easily. Yes, he thought, he would dearly love to put this little beauty across the teenager’s naked haunches, but (as yet anyway) this was not allowed.

Ian Stranger watched in wonder. He had seen many school canes in the CP videos he loved to watch, but this was the first time he had seen one in real life. It looked awesome.

Principal Troughton swished the rod through the air with some force. It made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went.

Ian Stranger gaped. This could take his arse off. He had seen enough videos to know the damage a cane could do to a pair of buttocks. But, he was not naïve; he knew the headmasters in the vids went easy and camera angles made the canings look more severe than they really were.

Here, today, with Principal Troughton, he would experience the real thing.

Swish! The cane flew once more across empty air.

“Stand there,” Principal Troughton pointed to a space in the centre of the office.

Obediently, Ian moved into position.

“Face the other way. Bend over. Place the palms of our hands on your shins. Feet apart. Knees straight.”

Principal Troughton had thrashed many students, but none before had assumed the position so readily. Ian gripped the cotton of his cream chino trousers and thrust his bottom out. In this position he had a perfect view of his own crotch. It was beginning to bulge. It was not yet erect, but he felt it was on the move.

The principal eyed the teenager’s backside. His wide leather belt was so long and the boy’s hips so narrow, that it wrapped one-and-a-half times around his waist. The chino trousers were quite thick and would give the student some protection against the onslaught of the cane. Troughton dearly wished he could order the rebellious teenager to lower them to his ankles.

But he could not. So, he would have to make sure each of the six strokes (the maximum allowed) was a humdinger.

Troughton gripped Stranger’s tee-shirt and pushed it up his back to expose several inches of bare, hairless flesh. It was not strictly necessary to do this as the shirt was not covering the teen’s buttocks but the principal believed it added to the drama of the occasion.

Stranger stared down at his grubby Nike trainers. It was not like that in the St FIGS stories he loved so much. He tried to imagine himself dressed in immaculate school uniform, draped across Dr Henderson-Smith’s armchair, as the headmaster readied himself to deliver an exemplary six-of-the-best. He felt the rattan cane being tapped across the very centre of both buttocks.

What Stranger did not see was the tubby, sweaty principal lift the cane high and then with a swing of his hips, rather like a golfer teeing off, he brought it down with tremendous energy into the seat of the chinos.

Stranger heard the crack as the cane connected with his backside a split-second or so before he felt it. The pain was searing. It felt like someone had rubbed a red-hot poker across his bum. Air rushed from his body and through his pursed lips. He did not yell, but he wheezed: again and again and again as the agony seemed to squeeze all the breath out of his body.

He gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly to prevent himself from standing and jumping up and down.

“Keep perfectly still.” Principal Troughton tapped the cane once more across Stranger’s buttocks. This time a fraction of an inch lower than the first. Stranger screwed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth. Troughton sucked a great gasp of air right down into his lungs, raised the cane once more and repeated the golf swing.

Despite all his fantasising, Stranger could not have anticipated the pain. It was a hundred times worse than anything he had felt before. His eyes blazed and his body began to vibrate. His cock was limp. Blood was rushing north-south, east-west, throughout his body; but none wanted to travel to his groin.

Then the third stroke whipped hard into his battered bottom. The pain was intense, burning: unendurable.

The final three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into his tight buttocks; just where the cheeks met the thighs. Stranger could not help it; he yelled fit to bring the walls of the office crashing down. He clung onto his calves, fingernails biting so deep they would leave scars that would take hours to clear.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, he tried to catch his breath. His heartbeat pulsated and phlegm rose in his throat. Any second now he feared he would spew a stream of vomit.

The intense agony which started in his buttocks travelled through his whole body. His face and neck were as scarlet as his backside probably was.

Principal Troughton admired his handiwork. Six tramlines were clearly visible across the seat of the chinos, all delivered in a tight group. He was proud of his expertise. He was gaining a deserved reputation among the students as an awesome caner.

He could see Stranger was in some distress. Troughton could not see the teenager’s face, but he appeared to be crying. The lad’s shoulders were certainly heaving.

Quietly, he returned the cane to its resting place in the drawer. Then turning to Stranger he said quietly, “That’s it. It’s over. You can stand up now.”

Slowly the student straightened. The pain was easing a little now, but he could feel welts had risen low down across both buttocks. They would be tender for some time to come. Sitting down might be a little uncomfortable.

He was in control of himself now. His eyes were wet, but no tears flowed.

He waited silently while Principal Troughton busied himself writing details in the punishment book. He was startled at how his own hand shook as he tried to write his signature.

Moments later he was in the street making his way to his home. The agony had subsided into a warm throbbing and would clear completely before he reached his council estate.

His first real-life experience of corporal punishment was over. It had been intense, awesome, breath-taking, amazing, wonderful, incredible. And, he could not wait to repeat it.

 

Other stories you might like

Snowballs

Warren’s awakening

The coach and the schoolmaster

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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