Continuing our visit to an imagined world that some readers might prefer to our own ….
Marcus couldn’t resist gingerly touching his bum. It tingled a little after the bare-bottomed spanking he got from Mr Smith. His fingers rekindled some of the pain. He was late for school and not for the first time. It would be six stingers from the Dean of Discipline. Six of the very best. Trousers and pants down, of course. The Dean wouldn’t care one jot that his rear end had already been blistered earlier that morning.
As he entered the school gates he sensed an atmosphere. Something was going on. A group of senior boys milled around the entrance to the gym. None toted PE bags. Even from a distance he could pick up their excited chatter. He recognised his good pal Gavin. “What’s going on?” he inquired.
Gavin’s reply was breathless. “It’s the rugger boys,” a huge grin split his face, “You’ll never believe it, they were slaughtered by St. Tim’s on Saturday, lost by twenty points. Old Tommo says they were slacking.” Old Tommo was the not-so old rugby coach at the school. He held himself with a military bearing and barked orders at the boys as if they were on a parade ground. He also kept an iron grip on discipline.
“He says they’ve disgraced the school. He’s called all the Fifth and Sixth to the gym. He’s going to give them all a big whacking!” He almost rubbed his hands together with glee. Marcus joined in the excitement. He and his pals were often on the receiving end of corporal punishment; it was a way of life. They didn’t like it – and often hated it – especially when it was applied excessively or unjustly. But that didn’t stop them revelling in the discomfort (and pain) of their fellow creatures when they were put through it. A whacking! For every member of the school rugby fifteen. And in public. What fun! It beat double maths first thing on a Monday any time.
The Head Boy arrived with a key to the gym and the boys filed in. The gym was not so large and the boys were instructed to stand against the walls and in this way each would get a perfect view of the public execution that was about to take place. They stood easy (as soldiers on parade might say), mostly hands behind backs, feet apart, knees slack and waited for the performance to begin. The boy standing next to Marcus stood with his hands clasped in front of himself. A casual observer might think he was at prayer, but Marcus could see the swelling in the front of the teenager’s trousers.
Without fanfare, fifteen rugby players entered. Marcus knew them all by name. Some he was friends with, others he wouldn’t give the time of day too. It mattered not, friend or foe, he, and his fellow witnesses, were going to enjoy the show. The hubbub of noise immediately ceased as Old Tommo and his junior master Mr Tranter entered.
“First,” Old Tommo wasted no time. He barked, “You will line up by that wall,” he indicated the spot he meant, “Then one at a time you will walk over to Mr Tranter. Mr Tranter was already in position. A low bench had been manhandled into position near a rather worn gym horse. He sat on the edge of the bench and tried without fully succeeding to hide a grin on his smooth open face. Mr Tranter was a junior master and not much older than the sixth-formers themselves. He was in his first term at the school and had already learned – the hard way – of Old Tommo’s methods. Old Tommo worked hard and he expected everyone to meet his exacting standards. The rugby lads knew this – that was why they were lined up this morning after the disastrous performance on Saturday. Mr Tranter was no exception. He might be on the teaching staff but at twenty-two years of age and just out of teaching college Old Tommo reckoned he wasn’t too old to learn a lesson or two in life. Mr Tranter had himself been over the gym horse and not to perform athletic leaps.
Now, he had a chance to get his own back a little. Old Tommo was still speaking to the boys. “One at a time you will be called forward. Do so without fuss. Then, drop your shorts,” his eyes narrowed, “and I trust none of you is wearing underpants.” This was strictly forbidden and the boys were in no doubt about that. He looked along the line of boys, trying to read minds. “It’ll be extra if you are,” he stated as a matter of fact. “Then bend over Mr Tranter’s knee.”
The junior master brandished the large, once white and now dark grey, plimsoll in his hand. His intention was clear. Again, he struggled to keep his face straight. He needed to adopt a severe demeanour, it wouldn’t do for the boys – or, indeed Old Tommo – to know he intended to enjoy himself very much.
“Chandler,” Old Tommo spoke to the eighteen-year-old who was first in line, “Step forward.” Chandler affected an air of nonchalance as if he had seen it all before. And, to an extent he had. Corporal punishment was the norm at the school and hardly a day went by without some poor boy being taken across a knee or ordered over a gym horse. It wasn’t even so unusual for a group of sixth-formers to be spanked together, each witnessing the others’ punishment. They were a team and such punishments did wonders in bonding them together.
Chandler wasn’t about to admit it to his pals but he was very proud of his arse. It was round and meaty and able to absorb much punishment. He moved the two paces necessary to reach Mr Tranter and deliberately avoiding the eye of the junior master he hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his rugby shorts. A flick of the wrist had them lowered over his round buttocks. He parted his legs by a couple of centimetres and the cotton shorts slithered down his legs, puddling at his feet. He was now naked from the waist down, but again, he showed no embarrassment. The eighteen-year-olds often compared tackles – and they weren’t talking about rugby moves. Chandler had nothing to be ashamed of in that department.
Mr Tranter pretended not to notice the long slender cock and sagging balls; he was constantly aware of his own lack of length. There had been that time, early in his career at college when a girl he was bedding actually laughed as his underpants slid down his thighs. “Bend over,” he ordered and Chandler without hesitation dived forward. Mr Tranter’s legs were thin and wiry and he offered an inadequate platform for the teenager. Chandler rested across the junior master’s legs and presented his large bottom for spanking. In truth Chandler was too large and Mr Tranter too small for this position, but Old Tommo had insisted on an over-the-knee spanking and there was nothing either the boy or the junior master could do. Events had to take their course.
Chandler was some weight and the junior master was annoyed that the teenagers cock dug into his own thighs, emphasising his own feeling of inadequacy. Mr Tranter gripped the plimsoll in his right hand, and with his other hand he gripped the sixth-former’s waist all the better to keep him in position. The slipper rose. It fell with some power across the centre of Chandler’s left cheek. Then it hit the right one and the spanking was underway.
The boys around the walls watched on in silence. Many had witnessed spankings before – and, of course, some had been the object of attention themselves. They settled down to enjoy the spectacle.
There was a ritual. When instructed each member of the rugby team stepped forward, dropped shorts and presented himself across the junior master’s knee. He waited patiently while twelve stingers were delivered. Pow-pow-pow. There was precious little ceremony and the spanking was done in less than thirty seconds. Then, the boy would stand, retrieve his shorts from his ankles, tug them back to their rightful place and move off to the other side of the gym to await round two.
In this way fifteen members of the rugby team had their bare bottoms slippered. They were all eighteen years old (although possibly one or two might have been nineteen) and although a bare-bottomed slippering stung like blazes the moment plimsol connected with bare flesh, the pain quickly subsided. There would be a warm glow for a minute or two and then it would be all over. A ritual spanking. Nothing much to worry about. A poor performance on the pitch could not go unpunished. The players knew that, the schoolmasters knew it too. It was the way of the world.
Now with the slippering done came the far more painful part of the process. Time for the caning. “Line up,” Old Tommo commanded and the boys without demurring did as instructed. “Right,” Tommo had a selection of canes. Thick ones, thin ones. Heavy ones, light ones. Some with, some without the traditional crook handles. If truth be told the canes were sometimes manufactured with defects and if used excessively, they would break below the handle thus rendering a crook-handled cane into a straight one. So it was that the cane Old Tommo swished through the air as he spoke was one such. It was about a metre long and as thick as a cheap pencil.
“Anderson,” he pointed to a lad who had been one of the last to be slippered. “You will go first.” Anderson’s face coloured. He knew why he had been specially chosen. “What did I say about underpants?” it was a rhetorical question from Old Tommo. Everyone knew what the master had said and the boys had been surprised when Anderson had lowered his rugby shorts. “I said no underpants,” Old Tommo said although it was entirely unnecessary. “And the penalty for that…?” He paused for dramatic effect. Anderson eyed the cane in Old Tommo’s hand. Was he supposed to answer, he wasn’t sure. “Well laddie!” Clearly Tommo did require a response.
“Extras, sir,” Anderson replied with a confident voice that made Marcus suspicious.
“Extras,” Old Tommo confirmed. “Take those shorts down. You can leave the underwear on and get across the horse.” He tapped his cane against the leather top of the horse. “Twelve strokes for you.” A lad standing close to Marcus gasped audibly. His eyes shone almost as if he was himself about the receive the severe caning. Chandler blinked twice, took a deep breath and in one swift movement not only had the shorts over his buttocks and down his legs to his feet but also he stepped out of them and with what he hoped was a casual air, he kicked the shorts across the floor. Now he was dressed in rugby shirt, white cotton undershorts and white ankle socks.
“Bend over,” Old Tommo waved the cane towards the horse but he need not have done this. Chandler knew the position. He had been caned before – and Marcus suspected Chandler wouldn’t mind presenting his bottom for punishment many more times before his school career was over.
“Go higher. Legs apart. Stick that bottom out,” Chandler did as instructed. He was shorter than many others in the rugby team and he fitted well across the horse. His stomach rested on the leather top and his feet were planted firmly on the ground. He held on to the wooden base of the horse and closed his eyes.
There are many different ways a master might deliver a caning. The length and thickness of the rod will determine how severe is the beating; so too will the weight of the strokes. They could be mere love taps which all but caress the bottom, leaving the young man unscathed. Alternatively, they might be delivered with the full strength of the body – perhaps, like a judicial caning in Malaysia or Singapore – which would rip the buttocks to shreds causing damage that might never entirely clear.
Old Tommo was old school. He believed a caning should be painful (otherwise what was the point?) but he also believed that it should be punishment and not torture. So, on a scale of one to ten between love taps and Singapore-style, his canings came in at about six. Six of the best on a scale of six, one might say. This meant that he lifted the cane away from Chandler’s bottom held it a shoulder height for a second or two and then using the force of his forearm he brought it crashing down across the cotton-covered buttocks. A last-second flick of the wrist added extra power to the stroke. After it landed dead centre of both cheeks Old Tommo was delighted to witness the sight of a thick welt developing beneath the underwear. Chandler’s shoulders heaved and his head rose and fell but he made no sound. His hands gripped the string handles on the horse. Before Old Tommo had finished Chandler’s knuckles would be deathly white.
Dozens of pairs of eyes trained on Chandler’s backside. It twitched uncontrollably as the teenager waited for the next stroke to land. Swish!! Crack!! It connected with his backside barely a centimetre beneath the first cut. Chandler’s hips swayed and his knees buckled. He sucked in air, trying with some success to stifle any sound his body demanded he make. Two down and ten to go.
Twelve strokes – especially as delivered by Old Tommo across thin cotton underwear – is an awesome punishment. By the time Chandler was in the changing room with the other lads comparing marks his bottom would be criss-crossed with red lines. The raised welts would give the surface of his bottom the resemblance of corrugated iron. Each line would be pulsating, glowing red. It would be several hours before he could sit in comfort and days (possibly a week or more) before the marks disappeared completely.
Chandler would be the hero of the rugby team. He got twelve when the others got six, and not that anyone was making notes Chandler had been the star performer in the match on Saturday. If any member of the team deserved not to be caned it was Chandler.
But Chandler was not complaining. Twelve on the underwear, a special Old Tommo caning, in front of the fifth and sixth years. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine such a thing (and he had tried often enough).
While the rugby lads were tending to their wounds Marcus made his way slowly to the Dean of Discipline’s office. His visit may have been delayed, but it hadn’t been cancelled.
Picture credits: Sting Pictures
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 