“I don’t know about you, but my arse feels like I’ve sat on a barbecue,” Nathan looked ruefully at his friend. His own trousers were at his knees and he held on to the elasticated waist of his underpants as he tugged them away from his body to inspect his savaged buttocks.
“Yeah, Old Nutter can sure lay on a caning.” Noah twisted his body to try to get a better look at his own bum. He could make out several thick red lines running in all directions across both cheeks. A number had risen into welts that he knew would soon turn purple. It had been twelve swipes on the bare, and now his arse resembled a map of Clapham Junction railway.
A few minutes earlier
“Can you think of any reason why I should not cane you for this,” Dr Nuttingham, the headmaster, said quietly, Noah shook his head, resigned to the fact he would shortly be bending over with his bare arse in the air.
“Lower your trousers and underpants and put yourself over the desk, Watkins,” the headmaster ordered.
Dr Nuttingham watched intently as Noah moved towards the desk and undid the belt of his long grey school trousers. He released the buttons of the fly and pushed them firmly down to his ankles. He then placed his hands under his grey school shirt and pulled down a pair of white regulation underpants. He pushed these down his pale legs to join his crumpled trousers and stretched himself firmly across the surface of the desk. He had made no attempt to lift up his school shirt and the area he knew would shortly suffer familiar pain remained decently covered.
The headmaster supressed a smile as he watched these proceedings and then enquired, unnecessarily, if Noah was ready. He then approached the prostrate boy. He said nothing but lifted the tail of the boy’s shirt and rolled it to a little above his waist. The eighteen-year-old senior sixth-former, acutely conscious of this final baring of his backside, lifted his body slightly to allow the shirt to make its journey.
The thick, swishy crook-handled cane had left its nesting place on the hat stand and was now whistling through the air – limbering up for yet another tirade of indignant, righteous strokes across another offender’s bare backside. Noah could see Dr Nuttingham’s mouldy, almost worn out striped black trousers and his tattered academic gown out of the corner of his eye. He felt the cane tap the inside of his thighs to encourage him to spread his legs. Now, the headmaster could better appreciate the teenager’s scrotum, crack and hole.
Noah felt something hard pressed against the bare flesh of his buttocks and he tensed his legs in anticipation. His palms were sweaty as he gripped the opposite side of the desk.
There was a long pause, then a swish followed by a loud firecracker explosion. Intense, blinding pain overwhelmed him for a few seconds, and then he was aware of a deep and biting ache across his bottom. The stroke had landed full across both cheeks, high across the top of his bum. The stinging was amazing, but it faded quickly.
The tight bottom quivered as the cane tapped on the apex of the contours. Noah panted a little, but he was a boy who had felt the bite of the cane frequently and he had endured many thrashings. Swipe! The headmaster hit so fiercely, he might have been trying to beat a carpet.
The next cut was low, at the base of his bum, landing with a meaty “thunk.” It hurt. It hurt terrifically. The stinging was insane. He gasped loudly. It was involuntary; it was what his body demanded he do. Already the line of agony across his seat felt like a hot branding iron against his bare flesh. His fingers hurt from their impossibly tight grip on the desk, but that was nothing compared to the pain behind him.
There was a sharp swish followed by a louder, more intense, pop. The pain was startling. It came at him fast, a rush of stinging that took his breath away. Dr Nuttingham didn’t give Noah a moment to think about it but promptly whipped the cane down again, this time a bit lower, right where the bum meets the thighs.
Pain flooded through him, searing and burning. He thought he might die; the agony was so bad. His whole arse was on fire, the stripes sent messages of alarm to his brain. His eyes watered and he choked back sobs.
The next swipe had him stamping his right foot in a futile attempt to dull the pain. Despite grunts and groans, he somehow managed to keep his position; chest and left cheek on the desk top, stomach pressed against one edge, while his hands gripped the further edge for dear life.
The eighteen-year-old gritted his teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. The cane tapped across the waiting rump, then without warning another swipe whistled down, landing with a sickening swish and crack. Noah nearly jumped off the desk as the stripe landed diagonally across two previous cuts, igniting a line of searing heat right across both cheeks.
The headmaster smirked. The boy most certainly felt that one. Good. The brat deserved everything he was getting; every last swipe of Dr Nuttingham’s fearsome rattan cane.
Outside the study door, Nathan winced, his hands slipping round subconsciously to comfort his own bottom at the whistle and crack of the rod as it made contact with Noah’s arse. He knew it would only be moments until he was across the desk receiving the same treatment.
The headmaster was nearly finished. He laid on three more strokes in rapid succession, slicing across another three narrow lines of piercing pain on the upper half of the boy’s buttocks.
Noah’s yelps turned to full-throated yells. Tears flowed down his cheeks; his body gyrated to the left and right; his feet marched up and down; his bare crotch humped the hard wooden desk. “Excellent work”, the headmaster thought. “I’ve defeated the arrogant, cheeky sod.”
He replaced the cane in the hat stand and stood behind the weeping prostrate teenager. “You may stand up now Watkins,” he said softly. Painfully, Noah slipped off the desk. He stumbled slightly and grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Dr Nuttingham gave him a couple of tissues to wipe his nose and eyes. Then the headmaster sat back in his chair and watched as Noah slowly replaced his white Y-fronts over his scorching bottom and then gingerly bent down again to retrieve his grey school trousers.
Once the boy was once again fully dressed, the headmaster delivered his lecture. Noah stood, staring intently at the rug beneath his shiny black shoes. He heard none of it, all he wanted to do was leave and go and give his tortured buttocks some comfort. At last, Dr Nuttingham opened a drawer, extracted the punishment book, found his page, and started to write. Soon he pushed the book and pen across the desktop for Noah to sign his name.
With that final task completed, the headmaster growled, “You are dismissed. Send in Michaels.”
Nathan reached inside his backpack and pulled out a phone. “Let me take some photos; I’ll put them on blazingboyzbuttz.”
Noah put his hands on his knees and jutted his backside. The phone vibrated, Nathan checked caller ID and answered. “Y’ello Mr Hennessey. Yeah, everything’s fine. We’ve finished. Just about to leave. Another job?” Nathan questioned Noah with his eyes. “Well yes, but we’ll need some time to heal,” he giggled. “Okay, speak to you later.”
The boys stripped off their school uniforms and replaced them with jeans and jumpers. “Fancy a drink before we go home?” Nathan inquired.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second