Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com