New boy at Albion

used-drawing-cane-prefect-mag-81

Keith was stunned by what the Head Boy held in his hand. He could feel sweat moistening his brow, he bit his lower lip nervously as four pairs of eyes stared at him.

“B… b… but …” Keith wanted to say that he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but the eighteen-year-old newcomer to Albion School couldn’t get a sentence to form.

“Smoking is a serious offence here,” snapped Roland Winstanley, the Head Boy. His blue eyes sparkled and his pale skin coloured. The other three sixth-formers in the room, all senior prefects, nodded in agreement.

“But I hadn’t even started here,” Keith had found his voice. His dark brown eyes looked appealingly at his four accusers.

Roland swooshed the thick shiny yellow cane through the air. Keith flinched. It looked a terrifically awesome weapon. He had been on the receiving end of a rattan cane many times in the past; he didn’t want a repeat performance on his first day at a new school.

Roland flexed the crook-handled cane thoughtfully between his hands. “You were wearing school uniform on the train. You gave other passengers a bad impression of the school, even before you set foot in the quadrangle.”

Keith blushed. They were right of course; he should have known smoking was against the rules. It had been in the seven schools he had attended since the age of eight. Why would Albion be any different?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He wasn’t especially, but he knew that’s what the pompous prefects would want to hear. He was eighteen years old. An adult. He was legally allowed to smoke, he thought. He wasn’t at school. What did it have to do with them? It was the uniform that gave him away, of course. The magenta and yellow blazer was unique. There wasn’t another school in the whole of the kingdom with a uniform like it. Anyone spotting him in public could be in no doubt where he was from. He was lucky he was a sixth-former, every other boy at Albion up to the age of sixteen was forced to wear tailored grey short trousers.

Keith looked at the Head Boy flexing and swishing the cane. He was enjoying himself too much, he thought. And the three senior prefects were not much better with their supercilious grins. How he hated them.

But, as every boy knows the prefects run the school. It was the natural order of things. The Head Boy, supported by the prefects, was in control. They were the same age as Keith but he must submit to their wills. There was nothing he could do, except face the inevitable consequences of his actions.

But, he tried to appeal to their good nature. “Can’t you overlook it this time – first offence and all that?”

Roland Winstanley had no good nature. He was a bully. “I won’t be responsible for lowering standards at Albion,” he snorted. “Make your mind up – either accept our punishment here and now, and that will be the end of the matter or else you will be reported to the headmaster.” He looked at his fellow prefects. “And we know what will happen to you then, don’t we?”

The three prefects pursed their lips and nodded sagely.

Keith sighed despondently. He didn’t want the headmaster involved. What if he told Keith’s father, the thrashing he would deliver would far outweigh anything Roland Winstanley, the Head Boy could manage.

Keith took a deep breath. “If you promise it won’t go any further, then I’ll take a punishment from you.” He sounded more confident than he felt. The beating would hurt, that was for certain, but he suspected his four tormentors might have sadistic tendencies. They would get a kick out of caning him.

“Agreed,” replied the Head Boy curtly. Smiles flickered across the faces of the other three.

“Please remove your blazer and place it on the desk,” Roland swished the cane towards a large leather-topped oak desk, unless there was any doubt. Keith pursed his lips and fumbled at the buttons. Soon he had slipped it from his shoulders. Sweat patches discoloured the armpits of his grey shirt even though it wasn’t a particularly warm day. His torso and arms were firm; he had the strength of a fine batsman.

One of the prefects lifted a straight-backed wooden chair and took it to the centre of the study. “You should stand there,” he pointed to the front of the chair. Keith knew the procedure. He had stood in many studies of headmasters and housemasters. Many required a boy to bend over a chair by facing it and griping the shiny seat, back arched and legs spread. One headmaster he knew expected him to approach the chair from the back. This was fine if you were tall and your body cleared the top.

Keith took up his position and waited for the inevitable and time-honoured instruction, “Bend over.”

But he was in for a shock.

“Lower your bags and drawers and bend over the chair.”

Keith’s startled look made Roland smile.

“We take our beatings on the bare at Albion School,” he intoned pompously.

Keith felt his face flush hot. It would be bad enough letting a boy his own age cane his backside, but to allow him to do it on the bare was intolerable.

Roland swished the cane through empty air, the other three prefects looked on, waiting to see how the little drama would unfold.

“There is still time to change your mind. The headmaster would, of course, also beat you on the bare,” Roland paused for effect, “In all likelihood with a twenty-four branch birch.”

Keith heard one of the watching prefects snort.

With rising anger, Keith felt for the buckle of his belt. His mind said he should go through with the bare-arsed beating. Get it over with quickly, it told him, but his fingers refused to cooperate.

“Would you like me to take them down for you,” the Head Boy could not suppress a sneer.

Keith bit his tongue. It would do him no good to argue. Roland Winstanley was in total control. He could, if he so wished, inflict severe damage to Keith’s backside. As it was six (and he hoped it would only be six) on the bare would be almost intolerable. If the Head Boy awarded him extra strokes or if he swiped the cane into the proffered backside with the swing of a golfer, Keith might not be able to sit in comfort for many days to come.

At last the belt was unbuckled and the five buttons on his fly undone. The heavy pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“All the way,” Roland barked.

Keith spread his knees and the trousers slithered down to rest on top of his shoes. Then, he unbuttoned his woollen drawers and pushed them down. Keith had been naked in front of his fellows many times in the past, boarding schools were not for the modest, but he shielded his cock and balls with his hands nonetheless.

The prefect snorted again.

“Bend over the chair,” Roland tapped the wooden seat for emphasis.

His heart now racing, Keith waddled the three steps needed to reach the chair, then in one continuous movement he lent forward, placed his hands either side of the seat, arched his back and spread his feet as far as the trousers and drawers would allow.

It was silent in the study. Four pairs of eyes stared intently at the pale round bottom presented before them. It was twitching in anticipation of the hurt that was about to be inflicted upon it.

The prefects watched smugly as Roland raised the thick swishy cane as high as his arm would take it. It hovered there above the fleshy target area. Keith’s strong legs were straddled and taut.

Suddenly the cane slashed through the air and landed like a razor on Keith’s naked buttocks. The teenager sucked in air sharply. Roland grimaced, obviously disappointed that the new boy had not cried out. He raised his right arm again and slashed the cane down harder this time. That got the desired reaction.

Keith yelped and his hips swivelled. His knees buckled. He stomped his feet up and down. A dark red line appeared across the centre of both cheeks. He steadied himself, determined not to let himself down in front of the Head Boy and senior prefects on the first day at his new school.

Roland’s face beamed. He handed the cane to his fellow prefect. A squat ugly boy with pock-marked skin. He seized the rod with eagerness. He wasted no time and measured the rattan across Keith’s cheeks. He tapped it once or twice across the crown making the flesh ripple. Then he raised it high into the air before bringing it down with all his power. It sounded like a pistol shot. Keith let out a shrill “Owww!”

The squat ugly prefect passed the cane on to his companion. He was captain at cricket and had the upper body strength to slog cricket balls to the boundary. He whacked Keith’s arse with such power the rattan sank deep into the meat. Keith’s knuckles were white with the force of his grip on the chair. His scream could probably be heard up and down the corridor.

The cricket captain handed the cane on. The third prefect “sawed” the cane across Keith’s buttocks trying to find an area as yet untouched by the cane. He aimed low, close to where the cheeks meet the thighs, and let rip. He swiped so hard it was as if he was beating a carpet. He was rewarded by another ear-splitting howl from Keith.

He handed the cane back to Roland to deliver the final cut. It had been an awesome beating so far. No boy, however experienced a “taker”, could have survived it without crying out. But the worst was yet to come. Roland aimed the cane so that it ran from the lower have of the left cheek to the upper half of the right, then he drew back his arm and brought the cane crashing down. The diagonal stroke landed across the previous five throbbing lines, reigniting the pain in all of them and adding some considerable agony itself.

Keith lifted the chair off its four legs as his body shot bolt upright. Then he released his grip and let the chair crash to the floor while simultaneously gripping his burning buttocks with both hands and dancing up and down on the spot like some crazy Red Indian in a bad Western movie. His cock bounced up and down and tears flooded down his face. He bent double in a desperate attempt to catch his breath. He was shattered by the ordeal.

“Get dressed. Go.” Roland Winstanley had had his bit of fun. Now, he wanted the wretched new boy out of his sight. Keith stumbled and fell as too quickly he tried to pull up first his drawers and then his bags. He was still fastening his belt as the ugly prefect passed him his blazer. The captain of cricket held open the study door and Keith stumbled through it and rushed down the passageway.

The door now safely closed, Roland delved into the pocket of his own blazer and extracted a silver cigarette case. He flicked it open. “American on the left. Russian on the right,” he grinned.

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

The Gafffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

The sneak thief

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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