I was draped across the lap of the headmaster, my trousers around my ankles, my white pants yanked down, and my bare bottom exposed and waiting for pain. I was eighteen years old and until a few moments earlier had been a senior prefect. That privilege had been taken away – along with my dignity.
I didn’t resist when Dr. Foster took my arm and pulled me forward. If he had been putting my head into a guillotine, I wouldn’t have struggled any more or less. I was like a rag doll, limp and pliable. I felt myself being drawn forward and down. I went along helplessly. My face passed closely over Dr. Foster’s lap. I could see the bulge of his crotch.
I silently and submissively laid across his lap, placing my naked pelvis directly over his slightly parted legs. Dropping my head, I was very aware of my hands and feet touching the ground, and of my naked flesh resting against the soft cotton trousers that covered his legs. I was even more aware – frighteningly so – of my naked, unhappy bottom, quivering freely in the air as the highest point of my body, under the headmaster’s direct gaze.
I was staring at the floor on the other side of him, my heart pounding so loudly it hurt. My face burned with shame. This was impossibly humiliating. I moaned, wiggling as best I could. I could see under the chair to my own feet and to my right, I could see Dr. Foster’s legs in brogue shoes and dark socks and his hand-tailored suit-trousers.
An over the knee spanking was the punishment of choice for the headmaster. Not for we boys the sting of the whippy rattan cane across the seat of our stretched trousers. Dr. Foster was well practiced in delivering some very scalding spankings, leaving a boy’s bare buttocks as rosy and glowing as the setting sun. Sometimes it was a slipper, the smooth worn sole of which, my pals told me, created a wide-spreading smarting sting, which lingered long after the underpants and the trousers had been restored to the proper places.
Other times it was a heavy wooden brush. Its first purpose in life had been as a clothes brush, but boys at the school suspected Dr. Foster had purchased it for its weight and effectiveness as an instrument of punishment. My fate was to be the brush.
He lifted his hand and I tautened with anticipation. The first contact of brush with my bare bottom was a total shock. I’d never felt such pain before. He delivered the first blow with extraordinary energy. I had little time to think about this slap, since he landed another one to exactly the same spot immediately. I gasped; truly, I had no idea how painful it would be. I ground my teeth in mental rage and Dr. Foster moved his hand across to my other buttock and repeated a sharp application of two hard whacks. All the force of the headmaster’s powerful arm was concentrated into that little wooden surface. It felt cold when the brush first struck, then quickly it started to burn. The second stroke was worse, and the pain just kept building.
Before I could begin to absorb the stinging pain of one blow another landed on the same spot, then another and another in rapid succession. My right leg kicked up involuntarily as the stinging brush smacked home across my throbbing bum. Dr. Foster’s brow knitted in concentration as he rained down one powerful blow after another across the stinging, reddening target.
It took him somewhere between five and ten minutes of spanking to turn my bare bottom a colour that matched that of my embarrassed face. The burn spread over my whole bottom, even places he hadn’t swatted in a while. I squirmed across his knee now, alternating between clutching at his trouser leg and pushing myself up on the side of the chair. I needed to make it stop, somehow.
I would never forget how humiliating it was that first time: the hard wooden brush stinging my bare behind again and again, his left hand gripping my right wrist firmly, holding it away from the burning target so he could spank uninterrupted.
After dozens of whacks, my red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, while the spanking still continued. I heard my voice howling and shrieking throughout the smarting, stinging, biting session over the headmaster’s lap. I lunged, thrusting out with each consecutive strike of the brush on my flaming under-curves, wailing pleas for mercy.
My mistake had been not believing the headmaster when he said he would spank me. I was a senior sixth-former, it was April, I only had two more months before I left school for good. I was eighteen-years-old and legally an adult, for pity’s sake. None of that mattered. I had forgotten that in a school the headmaster was the law. He could do pretty much what he wished, short of actually killing a pupil.
In some schools, punishments were unbelievably harsh. Boys were routinely flogged with heavy birch rods across their naked haunches. I had heard rumours of boys hospitalised. Compared to that a bared-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was of little significance. Unless, of course, you were the teenager giving the headmaster a bird’s eye view of your crack and hole.
I had defied Dr. Foster’s direct instruction. Our town football team had made it to the semi-finals of the FA Cup. For us that was a very big deal. Every fan wanted a ticket. The only way you could get one was to queue up at the football ground. But, it would mean skipping school. Dr. Foster, who must have been a rugby man, spoke at school assembly. There would be the direst consequences if a boy “hopped the wag,” as we called truanting. Any boy who did so could expect to be peering at the red-and-black patterned rug in the headmaster’s study with his bared-bottom raised high. He didn’t say it quite so elegantly, but the message was clear.
The message was indeed clear and I clearly disregarded it. There was nothing I could say in mitigation. Over the knee I must go. Such was the life of a schoolboy. But I had two tickets safely tucked away in my sock drawer in my bedroom. A schoolboy’s life wasn’t all pain.
At last, my spanking was over. I hauled myself off Dr. Foster’s lap. My raw, scorched, buttocks were hot to the touch. I did the traditional “spanking dance,” hopping from foot to foot, while simultaneously rubbing my flaming bottom. My cock and balls bounced in front of me.
The agony quickly turned to throbbing and then to a warm glow. My tears dried immediately. I bent to retrieve my trousers and Y-fronts from my ankles. Soon I was respectfully dressed in long mid-grey trousers, grey shirt and blue and yellow blazer. I waited patiently while Dr. Foster completed details in the punishment book. I think I grinned like a Cheshire Cat when he handed it to me and demanded I initial the entry.
My head was light. I was elated. I had never felt so good before. If I said I had an “out of body experience” you would probably laugh at me. But, I swear I was looking down on the scene; me and the headmaster in his study.
Once dismissed, I rushed to the bogs and thankful that they were empty I whipped down my trousers and pants and pointed my bare bum at the mirror. The whole of my arse was a dark pink and there were some mauve bruises forming. Gently, I rubbed my fingertips across the contours of my buttocks, caressing them lovingly. My cock stood to attention. Within seconds, it throbbed almost as much as my bum had after my spanking.
I nipped into a cubicle. Ours was a posh school, we even had toilet paper. I banged the door shut behind me, unravelled a yard of tissue and wanked my brains out.
That happened to me more than forty years ago and I have been spanked, caned – and yes, birched – hundreds of times since. I have enjoyed terrific times and met wonderful people in the CP community – but nothing has ever compared to that first genuine spanking across the headmaster’s knee.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second