Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

Other stories you might like

Caned at college

Home early

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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