I had been ordered to meet the maths master Mr Matthews in the classroom after school and when I arrived he confirmed what I had expected. I had failed to attend several of his lessons; I rarely did homework and if I didn’t buck up my ideas I would fail the end of year exams.
It was early summer and the room was bright with sunlight and as hot as the fires of hell. I stood shuffling from foot to foot while Mr Matthews pretended to be engaged in a text book as if he were making notes for a lesson he was due to give. The pause gave me time to observe the man. He was what today we might call ‘old school.’ He looked old to me but I don’t suppose he was yet into his fifties. I had just turned eighteen and anyone over thirty was ancient to me.
Despite the heat Mr Matthews was formally dressed with a long-sleeved shirt and a tie tightly knotted at his throat. He always wore a smart dark suit even in the classroom when chalk dust flew during his energetic lessons. He enjoyed teaching and was very good at it.
He made me wait. As I suppose he intended it gave me time to consider why I had been called to see him. This was not as far as I could tell usual practice. If he ‘wanted a word’ with a pupil he would have it during or after a lesson. Perhaps, the fact that I was often absent made it difficult for him to do this. He had found me earlier in the day wandering around aimlessly and had delivered his instruction then.
At last, he closed the book and turned his attention to me. “You know why I’ve asked you to see me.” It wasn’t a question and I didn’t see any reason to reply. A hiss escaped through his pursed lips. Clearly, he expected more. “Well?” he snapped. I mumbled something incoherent. I realised my heart was beating as fast as if I was on the athletic track and my breathing was uneasy.
He told me what I knew. He said I had missed classes and not done homework. He was right, there was nothing I could say. I had no mitigation to speak of. I was just at that age; I had lost interest in school and being unsure what I wanted to do when I left in a few months’ time I was drifting. I wasn’t the only one, many of my friends were the same. I went to one of those schools where it was expected that we would want to go on to university and have professional careers. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. It’s not like I had dreams of being a writer or a musician or something, I was just drifting.
Mr Matthews sighed some more. “You are not a bad boy,” he told me. “If you applied yourself you could do well. Make something of yourself. Make your parents proud.” I don’t know why he mentioned my parents, he didn’t know them. They had never had much schooling (having been brought up during the war) and weren’t the kind who wanted me to have things they hadn’t. They would be happy if I got a job, got married and gave them grandchildren.
Mr Matthews was on a roll. Perhaps he made this speech every year to one or two senior boys like myself. He said, “You are drifting and you need a helping hand to put you back on track.” I had no response; I shrugged my shoulders. This wasn’t meant as insolence, I just didn’t know. Did I want to get back on track, did I care if I passed the maths A-level or not? Mr Matthews saw it otherwise. “How dare you! That is entirely typical,” he fumed, “You don’t know when you are on to a good thing. This school has one of the best reputations in the town, you should feel privileged to be here.”
I looked at him blankly, trying hard not to show through looks or gestures what I really thought of the school. This was 1974 and to look at the school you might think it was fifty years earlier. The building dated back a couple of hundred years and so did many attitudes. We did Latin and Greek, we played rugby, we had an army cadet force. The masters (all men, no mistresses here) wore black academic gowns and caps with tassels.
“You need a wakeup call, you need to buck up your ideas,” Mr Matthews was dredging up every cliché in the schoolmaster’s lexicon. “And I’m going to make sure you do.”
He rose from behind his desk and walked to the centre of the room, bringing his chair with him as he went. This he plonked down in the space between the pupils’ desks and the blackboard. He glared at me with bright blue eyes and suddenly, I realised what he intended to do. This was a traditional school with very old-fashioned ideas. Any moment now I would be ordered to present myself across the back of the chair. My eyes darted around the room, but there was no whippy, curve handled cane in sight and there was nowhere that I could see where one might be hidden.
Mr Matthews hitched up his trousers below the knees (to preserve the creases) and sat down on the chair. I watched as he wriggled his bottom and lent back into the chair. He spread his legs a little. “Now,” he clicked his fingers at me, “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his right. I was too confused to move. “Now!” he snapped. “There!” he pointed once more so there was no doubt what he wanted me to do. I shuffled into position.
“Right,” he looked icily at me and my stomach churned. I couldn’t understand what was happening but slowly it was dawning on me. “This is for your own good,” Mr Matthews said softly. “Take down your trousers.” I stood rigid. Had I heard him correctly? Take down my trousers. I would have understood if he had ordered me to bend over the chair and present myself for Six of the best from his cane. I don’t suppose a single day went by without a boy somewhere in the school being caned. It was that kind of school, although it was rare if not entirely unheard of for a sixth-former to be beaten.
A caning I could understand, but this? “Don’t make a fuss,” Mr Matthews glared at me and I stood frozen. “Trousers down,” he said sternly and when I still did not move he added, menacingly, “Please don’t make me do it for you.” Unaccountably, the thought of this old man fumbling with my belt buckle and unzipping my flies intrigued me. Defiantly, I stood my ground. “Doh!” he spluttered. Clearly, he had not expected such disobedience. He took hold of the waist of my trousers and pulled me closer to him. Then, rather expertly, he had my belt undone and the front of my trousers open. We wore grey long trousers and with the belt and the wallet in my pocket the weight soon had the trousers slipping down my thighs, and they bunched at the knees. It was a hot afternoon and I had not worn my blazer nor a jumper so now was standing before Mr Matthews wearing a white shirt and white underpants.
“Come here,” this time he didn’t instruct me to bend across his knees; perhaps expecting further defiance he took hold of my left arm and pulled me towards him. I tumbled across his knees and had to put my hands in front of me to stop me falling off and landing on the floor.
I was now face down over his knee, with my face inches from the ground, my knees bent and my feet firmly planted. I couldn’t see myself but I imagined that my bottom was presented at a tight angle just over Mr Matthew’s right thigh. I was, I suppose, in that traditional position endured by countless naughty boys over the decades. I might add I was a fit lad (in many senses of the word) and Mr Matthews was not so tall so I was a bit too big for an over-the-knee spanking. I was an enthusiastic athlete in those days so had fine muscles in my legs and a hard round bottom. The regulation white underpants I wore were snug fitting and really hid very little.
I had a moment to contemplate my predicament. I was bent over the maths master’s knee with my trousers down and my pants-covered bottom on display and at any moment he was going to spank me. Was he allowed to do this? Did the school rules permit such? Was this even legal? I had no time for questions because Mr Matthews was at that moment using the palm of his hand to smooth wrinkles from my cotton underpants. Satisfied that I was perfectly presented, he raised his hand and delivered the first slap, right in the centre of my right cheek. He repeated the manoeuvre on the left. And then developed a steady rhyme, spanking the left, then the right and so on. For a while he concentrated landing his palm across the very fleshiest part of my bottom. I had never been spanked (caned and slippered, yes, but never spanked) and I wasn’t sure how much this was supposed to hurt.
Certainly, he warmed up the mounds of my cheeks before turning his attention to the higher levels and the undercurves. He didn’t speak as he laid on the spanking and the only noise in the room was the steady slap-slap-slap of his palm connecting with my cotton-covered bottom. The pain, such as it was, began to mount and that and the fact that I was turned upside down and facing the floor made it difficult to breathe. I gasped and each gasp corresponded with a slap. Slap. Gasp. Slap. Gasp.
I lost all sense of time. I might have been over his knee for thirty seconds; it might conceivably have been thirty minutes. Eventually, he stopped slapping. It took a moment before I realised this had happened and perhaps believing the spanking was at an end I wriggled and made to get off his lap. “No you don’t,” he snapped. “We haven’t finished,” he coughed, and added with a flourish, “We haven’t even started yet.” To my astonishment he gripped the waistband of my underpants and with a couple of hard tugs he had them down over my buttocks and resting on top of my trousers. My bottom was now completely bare.
Believe it or not, I let him do this. I have already said that I was eighteen years old and something of an athlete so if I had wanted to I could have told Mr Matthews to go to hell. I could have resisted and stopped him pulling down my trousers. I could have punched him in the eye when he tried to take me across his knee. I did none of these things. It is true that I did not submissively prepare myself as instructed, by taking down my own trousers and bending over, but I had submitted to him. I lay without struggling across his knees and let him get on with spanking my naughty bottom.
Now, with my buttocks bared, I again made no protest. It was not uncommon to be bare-arsed in front of my fellow pupils, in the showers after rugby or swimming and so on. We were an all-boys’ school and the lads were not shy in showing off their physical attributes. I knew I had a fine bottom which was admired by many and I was not afraid to let them have a look.
That said, I had never gone out of my way to let the games master see me naked, so it was a new experience for me to have the maths master caress the curves of my naked buttocks. I felt (and in my imagination saw) Mr Matthews pat and preen my bum. He seemed satisfied and after a while he let fly. The sound of palm on naked flesh is less muted than when cotton underpants are worn and the sound reverberated around the room. It was summer and the classroom was hot and a window at the far end was open. We were on the ground floor of the building and it was possible that some boys might still be lingering after school and would hear. Would they recognise the noise for what it was: an eighteen-year-old sixth-former senior pupil having his bare bottom spanked by a master. I found the thought oddly exciting.
The slaps although probably not any harder than previously, hurt much more. The cotton underpants had provided some protection. Now, I was in pain. I had been gasping, now I was yapping. I had little control over my body and couldn’t stop my hips wriggling nor my legs kicking. I felt Mr Matthews grip me around the waist, obviously to stop me getting away. I closed my eyes; my temples were now throbbing almost as much as my backside.
Still, I had no concept of time. My head was buzzing. It was some kind of elation. The school wasn’t big on teaching science so my knowledge of human biology was scant and I didn’t realise this was a euphoria brought on by my predicament: a humiliating circumstance mingled with pain. I did not realise it but I was having a high. Only years later when I dabbled with drugs would I have a similar experience.
The spanking went on … and on. At last, satisfied that I had been punished enough, or simply because he had exhausted himself with his exertions, Mr Matthews let me rise. I stumbled to my feet and with no regard that Mr Matthews could now see both my bare bottom and my privates I hopped up and down while simultaneously rubbing away at my bottom. It surprised me how much heat had been generated. There was no mirror in the room so I twisted my body to try to inspect the damage. Mr Matthews had done a good job. Not one square inch of buttocks and thighs had been left unattended. My usually pale white skin was a uniform deep pink. I could just make out the outline of Mr Matthews’ fingers, this was especially so at the edges of my buttocks.
“Get dressed,” Mr Matthews instructed and I did so. I can’t remember what he said next but I do recall that within seconds I was out of the classroom and running through the corridors to get to the sixth-form toilet. Once inside I had a closer look at my pert bottom. I must confess that the sight aroused me and I had no choice but to pleasure myself.
….
None of that story is true. But for decades I have believed it to be so; it is so real in my mind. Mr Matthews was a real teacher (name changed, of course); I was eighteen in 1974 and that school existed. The mind does strange things to a person. I have never been to a therapist so I don’t know why I invented this fantasy and continue to believe (to want to believe?) it is true.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
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Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 