The headmaster brandishes his cane. ‘Bend over that chair.’ His words are stern, and his tone brooks no argument. In the dimly lit study of St. Edmund’s School, the atmosphere is heavy with tension.
You stand before the headmaster’s imposing oak desk, a sixth-former, far too old to be on the carpet before the Head.
You swallow hard, your face turns pale. You knew what this means. You are going to get a sixer – six-of-the-best – across the seat of your trousers. The pain will be unbearable, and so too the humiliation. You, captain of rugger, a prefect, once a well-respected and admired pupil. Now, it has come to this.
You feel a cold sweat on your forehead and you wish you could run away, but you know that is impossible. Where would you run? What then? The whole school would know you are a coward. That you couldn’t take six strokes. You have no choice but to obey.
The chair is a heavy, high-backed wooden monstrosity with a seat as hard as iron. It has been the stage for many punishments over the years, and the mere sight of it strikes fear into the hearts of pupils.
‘Mitchell, you are a disgrace to this school,’ the headmaster intones. ‘You have no sense of honour or honesty. You have no respect for your fellow pupils or your teachers. You are a bad example to everyone. You deserve to be punished severely.’
The headmaster whines on. You stay silent. You cannot argue. You will not argue. What would be the point? Sadly, what the headmaster says is true. Where did it all go wrong? You were once a decent young man, with a bright future ahead. Now, a common thief, and a liar too boot.
With a heavy heart, you approach the ominous chair, you stand close peering down at the wooden seat. Your heart races and the speed of your breathing increases. You need to find the determination to do this. You suck in a lungful of air and bend over, gripping the seat tightly. You feel a shiver of dread crawl down your spine as you watch the headmaster flex the cane once more.
You feel your trousers stretched across your backside. You are outgrowing your school uniform and they are tight against your cheeks. You feel vulnerable, bent over the chair submissively waiting – allowing – the headmaster to punish you as he sees fit. You have no choice; you must let him get on with it. No matter how hard he beats you, you tell yourself, you will not cry out. You close your eyes and bite down on your lower lip.
Mr. Edwardson is a stern man of advancing years, known for his unwavering commitment to discipline. He believes that a swift and just punishment is the only way to ensure that wayward pupils can learn their lessons. In your present situation, you do not agree with his sentiments.
You feel a slight tingle across your bottom. You cannot see, but you realise that he is tapping your bottom with his cane, finding his aim. Suddenly without warning the cane is lifted, there is a moment’s silence and then:
CRACK!
You hear a sharp crack as the headmaster’s cane connects with your backside before you feel the almighty sting. It is as if he has pressed a red-hot wire into your bottom.
Despite your good intentions you cannot help but gasp as searing agony shoots through your backside and travels up and down your legs. You clench your teeth, determined not to cry out. Mr. Edwardson is known for his firm, precise strokes, and he made sure that one landed with maximum effect.
He doesn’t hesitate.
CRACK!
The second stroke lands, this time with even more force. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the chair, but you remain silent. Tears well up in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.
CRACK!
The headmaster delivers the third stroke, his aim true. Now you have three stripes running in parallel across both cheeks. You can feel welts throbbing beneath your white, cotton Y-front underpants. There is a strip of intense pain about two inches wide burning into your flesh. You try to fight it but your resolve is crumbling. You cry out, ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’
You hear the floorboards creak; the headmaster is pacing the study. For one glorious moment you think he is returning his whippy, curve-handled rattan cane to its home, in a cupboard in the far corner of the study. So, it’s not to be six. You wonder if you can risk standing up. The headmaster has not given instructions. You bum is blazing and desperately you want to rush from the study and to the bogs so you can soak your throbbing cheeks in cold water.
Your thoughts are interrupted. The footsteps are returning, the cane taps across your bottom and to your utter dismay you realise the headmaster was only taking a breather.
CRACK!
Number four lands almost exactly on top of number two. The swine. You know Mr. Edwardson is an expert with the cane and he did this deliberately. You yell, there is no other way to accurately describe your reaction. You grip the heavy chair, almost lifting it from the ground. Your knees buckle, your hips wriggle and writhe, your feet stomp. Tears cascade down your cheeks. No more, please God, no more.
The headmaster does not hear your silent prayer. He is tapping away once more. This time lower, into the under-cheek, where the buttocks and thighs meet, the most sensitive spot, this is where your bum connects with the chair when you sit down.
CRACK!
You know you will not be able to sit comfortably for a very long time. This evening you will eat your supper standing at the mantlepiece. The pain is too much, your head aches almost as much as your bottom, your throat dries and you can scarcely breath. Tears and snot soak your chin.
The headmaster takes aim once more, the sixth and – please Sweet Jesus let it be – the final stroke. He rests the cane across your bottom but to your horror it is not aiming from left to right, this one is going from the bottom of the left cheek diagonally to the top of the right. It will intersect all the five throbbing welts and reignite the pain.
CRACK!
It is like the fires of Hell. You have felt no pain like this in all your life. Nothing. Not even that time you fell off your bicycle and broke your wrist.
‘That will do.’ That is your cue to stand. You are exhausted, a spent force. The room spins as you straighten up. By instinct, your hands grab hold of your scorching buttocks. You would prefer not to do this in front of the headmaster but you have no control. You rub and rub while at the same time hop from one foot to the other like some demented ‘Red Indian’ in a cheap cowboy picture.
You watch through blinking wet eyes as the headmaster saunters across the study. This time he does open the door to the cupboard and returns the cane alongside the dozen or so other rods.
He turns and faces you with a look of satisfaction. You can tell he thinks this has been a job well done. You would like to smash his smug face in.
‘You may go,’ he says imperiously. You do not need telling twice and with tears in your eyes and a snivel in your nose you hobble towards the door: humiliated and miserable.
Picture credit: Generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)
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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 
A memorable thrashing, well deserved. Just because he is a sixth former doesn’t mean that he is exempt from school discipline.
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