His new job

new story 2

Mr Conan, the senior partner of Conan and Connelly, the well-known scholastic agency, was a large, gregarious fellow with a bulbous nose and several chins that wobbled each time he moved his head. His fleshy jowls trembled as he clutched his fountain pen and held it over a lined secretarial pad.

“Your name, sir.”

I told him.

“Oxford or Cambridge?”

I had not attended university. “Neither sir. London. By correspondence.”

He peered at me doubtfully. “By correspondence. Honours?”

“No, sir,” I squirmed in my seat. The office was as small as Mr Conan was large. I shrivelled before him. Mr Conan shook his head. I knew at that moment my chances of gaining gainful employment were zero. Vacancies for teaching posts were few and the number of applicants better qualified than I were many. But, Mr Conan was not despondent.

“I have the very thing,” he beamed. “An admirable institution. You will be well suited.”

He was not deterred by my dubious expression.

“Yes, indeed young man,” his chins and his jowls moved in unison. “You may start tomorrow if you are so inclined.”

“The salary is not so generous but there is board, lodging and washing,” his smile was infectious. I would have been hooked even if I had not been so desperate. I had not worked in weeks and shortly I would be on the streets, lacking the funds to meet my rent. I was eager to accept, but in my soul I was certain there must be a catch.

“Where is this establishment,”  asked.

“The delightful town of Brocklehurst,” he replied. “One of the finest smaller towns in the land.”

I had heard of the name but knew no more about the place. I knew roughly where it was located. It was a journey of an hour of so by train. It was by no means an isolated location. I was sure it is was as amiable place to live as any other. Why then had the vacancy not been filled by a man more qualified and experienced than myself?

“What kind of establishment is this?” I ventured to inquire. I was uncertain that I wanted to hear the reply. It must, I supposed, be a school with some fearful reputation.

Mr Conan, I later concluded, would be able to sell snow to the Eskimo. His face shone brightly as he told me, “It is one of our newer establishments. A specialist college, so to speak.”

He had my attention. “Specialist?” I asked dolefully, fearing he was going to tell me it was a college for some fundamentalist religious sect. Perhaps, Mr Conan read my mind. “No, young sir,” his face radiated honesty, “It is a small college intending to encourage students towards examination success.”

Examination success? Don’t all schools promise that. “How so?” I croaked, still not convinced. “Aha!” Mr Conan, had a ready explanation. “It delivers a curriculum for the older boy who, for whatever reason, requires an intensive period of study in a controlled environment in order to acquire the necessary qualifications to go forth and become a successful member of society.”

He sounded like he might be quoting from the college’s perspective. I suppose I still looked puzzled, so Mr Conan offered a further explanation. “They seek to take examinations by Christmas.”

My own face brightened; the penny had dropped. “Oh,” I ejaculated, “A crammer!” Mr Conan frowned, for once the jocular veneer had been pierced. “I don’t believe young man,” he said, “Such institutions like that terminology.”

Why not? The college was one of many I supposed existed across the country. They catered for the pupils who failed their school examinations. More truthfully, they existed for the fathers of the failures. It was they who insisted the boys must get qualifications and take up careers thereby freeing the fathers of future financial responsibility for their sons. There was nothing reprehensible about this. The boys were probably dunderheads or just as likely were lazy blighters who did not work with sufficient diligence at their studies.  Now, they were to be force-fed enough “learning” over a few number of months to allow them successfully to take the examinations again.

I apologised to Mr Conan, saying I had intended no offence. He accepted and his sunny nature returned. I accepted the offer of employment with alacrity and the following day with my worldly possessions only half-filling my suitcase I set off for Brocklehurst. Mr Conan told me it took a maximum of fifty boys each term and I was expecting to find the “college” consisted only of two rooms above a snooker hall. To my astonishment, the building was a massive pile. Having been recently built it was square and very ugly, standing in its own extensive grounds with a broad driveway curving towards the front entrance.

The door was opened by an elderly lady whom I later discovered fulfilled a combined role of matron, cook and general handywoman. She greeted me warmly as if she was genuinely pleased to meet me. She took my suitcase and showed no sign of noticing that it was much lighter than she had expected. I loved her for this. “Please,” she said pointing towards a grand spiral staircase, “Mr Doyle is expecting you. The first door on the right.”

Mr Doyle was the principal of the school. By now I already knew there were three members of teaching staff, including himself. All the boys boarded at the school and one of my duties would be to supervise the dormitories at night. I had no qualms about this. They were all eighteen years old and could be expected to take care of themselves.

I mounted the stairs, noticing the expensive carpet beneath my feet. The house, despite its unprepossessing exterior, appeared well furnished and appointed. I reached the landing and saw the door to my left had a shining brass nameplate: Mr A. Doyle, Principal. I had arrived at my destination. The door was made of dark-wood panels; another example that the college did not lack money. I was about to raise my fist to rap on it when I heard voices on the other side. I am not generally an inquisitive person and it would never occur to me to peek through keyholes but for a reason I cannot explain I lowered my hand and waited.

I was rewarded by the sounds of voices. I couldn’t hear the words explicitly as the door was too heavy, but it seemed that one person was interrogating another. One voice spoke, there was a moment’s pause and the second voice replied. It went on like this for a few seconds. Then, there was silence. I expected the door to open and one of the parties to leave. This did not happen. I stood transfixed. I could not believe my ears. I was sure I must be mistaken, that I was incorrectly interpreting the sounds from within.

I heard a noise that I can only describe as a “thud”. It was as if something had been struck by I know not what. It was followed by another thud and this time there was an accompanying sound that I took to be a gasp or a yowl of some kind. My imagination raced. I thought I had recognised the noise. Surely not, I thought. I must be mistaken. I counted six thuds in total. Not each was supplemented by a gasp or yelp, but the final one was accompanied by what I can only described as a cry of pain.

There was a silence during which I moved back from the door. My mind was reeling. I was certain I was not wrong. My conclusion was confirmed when the door edged open and a young man slowly emerged. He was perhaps an inch or two taller than myself. As the door closed behind him his hands ruefully massaged his backside. I saw his eyes were wet and his face pale. Only then did he spot me. He shot me a stare of such intense hatred. His white face turned puce and he hurried down the passageway, turned a corner and was soon out of my sight.

I watched him go. It did not take much imagination to conclude the boy had just received a caning. The six thuds, gasps and yelps I had heard were proof of that. And, how the boy despised me for having been a witness. That he was a pupil at the college there was no doubt. But there was still one puzzle. The boy wore a black woollen blazer, the type any schoolboy up and down the country might wear. There was nothing unusual in that, but in addition this boy wore well-cut grey short trousers along with socks that reached to his knees. He was dressed as if he were eight years old, not eighteen.

Intrigued, I knocked on the door and when invited I entered. Mr Arthur Doyle was sitting behind a large desk. It was completely empty except for a blotter encased in leather. My eyes quickly scanned the room; I was searching for the cane I supposed he had used to beat the boy. All evidence had been removed. I noticed a chest of  drawers and at least one cupboard that could at that moment be secreting canes.

“Sit down, please,” Mr Doyle indicted a heavy straight-backed chair that was positioned in front of his desk. As I did so I wondered if the boy had moments earlier been draped across this very piece of furniture. From the corner of my eye I saw an armchair that could also have been be used. Then, again the desk I was facing was of a good height to accommodate a prostrate body.

It was difficult to get the image of Mr Doyle caning the boy from my mind. Maybe the boy had been ordered, “Bend over and touch your toes.” Had he been required to lower his short trousers for the caning? What about his underwear? Distracted in this way I am afraid I missed much of what Mr Doyle said to me. Possibly that is of no consequence because once he had finished his welcoming chat he sent me to meet Mr Percival Manners who Mr Doyle said was to show me the ropes.

Manners, “Call me Percy when the boys aren’t in earshot,” was in his mid-thirties. I immediately liked him and it wasn’t only because he brought out his gin bottled and poured us both generous measures. After he refiled our glasses I felt the courage to ask him to explain what I had witnessed. “Yes,” he sipped at his drink. “Corporal punishment is an important part of the regime here, the fathers expect it. In fact, they are prepared to pay a little extra on the fees for it.”

My eyebrow must have shot heavenwards because he hooted a raucous laugh and said, “Stranger things happen at sea.” He explained that the boys sent to Brocklehurst were not stupid; in fact they were mostly academically bright. “Just bone-idle, the lot of them,” he roared. He loved to laugh, even when sober. “So we have to persuade them to study.” His face beamed, “Three feet of whippy rattan applied with some force across the you-know-where makes a mighty-fine inducement for them to work hard.”

“Oh,” I said weakly, unsure how I was supposed to respond. Of course, corporal punishment was used in schools although not as much as it once was. It was banned in the school I had attended. I couldn’t believe colleges were using it on eighteen-year-old boys. But then again that probably explained why Brocklehurst had a devoted clientele prepared to pay a little bit extra. Would I be expected to cane the boys myself?

Percy might have read my mind. “I have a cane here for you to take.” He nodded towards a cupboard but made no move otherwise. “There’s also a list of written rules. It’s not only about studying, it’s the whole way of life.”

That prompted me to ask about the short trousers. Percy laughed again. “Blooming great brainwave. This isn’t a prison, we don’t lock the blighters up in their dorms. What’s to stop them absconding during the day or going down the pub at night?” He answered his own question. “Short trousers. We take away all their civvy clothes when they arrive. All they have is their school uniform. Short trousers.  Which of them is going to be seen dead dressed like that in public.”

I nodded my agreement. He was correct, a brainwave indeed. Percy hadn’t finished, “And it reminds then that they aren’t yet adults. They are still children and should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers keeps them in their place.”

We finished our second drink and Percy rose to refill our glasses. While he was on his feet, he opened a closet door and extracted a cane. “Ever use one of these before?” he asked passing it to me. I took it. My eyes popped. “Used one,” I said, fearing my voice might be slurred, “I’ve never seen one before today.” I held it in my hand. It felt light as a feather and I told Percy so. “Don’t be fooled. That little beauty can do a lot of damage.”

I caressed the cane, running my thumb and finger along its length. It was about three-feet long and as thick as a pencil. There were notches every six or eight inches. At one end it had been curved into handle. I held it in my hands and bent it, it flexed easily into an arc. I swished it through the air. “And,” I asked incredulously, “the boys let us beat them with this?”

Percy roared, “Let us!” He took his drink back to his seat, “Well, ‘let us’ might not be the best way to put it.  But really they don’t have a choice. Remember their fathers are paying for this. What’s a boy to do? If he refuses he gets expelled. He could run away. Either way, he’s got to face his father’s wrath at some point. No, believe me: we say, ‘Bend Over’ and over they bend.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Then Percy piped up once more. “So you’ve never seen a cane before and obviously never been caned.” We let that remark hang in the air. It was a sultry evening and Percy’s room was stifling. My head was beginning to ache (I was not much of a drinker in those days). “I thought you might benefit from a little tutorial,” Percy’s eyes shone. I blustered.

“You don’t want to make a darned fool of yourself in front of the boys,” he gestured towards the cane that was still in my grasp. “You have no idea how to use that thing.” There was nothing to be gained by denial. Until this day it had never occurred to me I might need to develop such a skill.

“Don’t worry,” Percy beamed, “Percy has it sorted.” I think like me he might be getting drunk. “I’ve asked one of the boys along. You know for a demonstration.” I must have looked incredulous. “A guinea pig, like,” he said by way of explanation. “Namby’s coming,” he put his left hand on his hip and flounced his right wrist (his idea of an effeminate man). “I think he likes it, Ha! Ha! Ha!”

As if on cue there was a knock at the door. Namby was dressed in his school uniform, complete with short trousers. He did not appear the least ill at ease as Percy gestured him to come into the room. He introduced us. He called the boy “Namby” and I assumed incorrectly as things transpired that this was a nickname of some sort. Percy and I both affected not to see the boy glance at the gin bottle. Apparently it was permissible to bring a boy into one’s room to thrash him, but not to drink alcohol.

“Right then,” Percy took immediate control. I wondered at that moment if this was not the first time he had instructed a colleague in the use of the cane. He manoeuvred a sofa so that it was in the middle of the room. Then, he took up the cane and swished it through the air. I could not see Namby’s face but by his general demeanour I calculated that he was not troubled by this scenario. Certainly when Percy instructed, “Bend over the sofa,” the boy did not hesitate to assume the required position.

The back of the sofa was quite high. Namby rested his stomach on the apex and reached forward with his arms and gripped the seat cushion. He spread his legs and bent his knees. “Well done, lad,” Percy encouraged him. Then to me he said, “Always have the head low and the bottom high. See,” he touched the tip of the cane against the crown of Namby’s buttocks, “Perfect.”

z action cane school shorts couch domestic

He continued speaking as he moved the cane across Namby’s buttocks making a sawing motion, “Ideally, you want to get all the strokes to land as close together as possible. Get one to land on top of another. That’s really painful.” He tapped the cane harder, “Isn’t that so Namby.”

“Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” he replied, speaking into the seat cushion.

“Right,” Percy stood to the left of his target. “Stand about three feet away. A cane’s length, then lay the tip across the crest of the furthest buttock.” He demonstrated what he meant. “That way when you whack the cane down it’s sure to hit both cheeks evenly and not just the nearest.” He wobbled the cane, laid it across the seat of the teenager’s short trousers and tapped it with some vigour into Namby’s bum.” Percy looked across at me, “That’s all there is to it really. It’s more craft than science. You just need to practice. It’s all in the arm and wrist. Bring your am back, bring it forward and then at the last moment reverse the wrist so that the cane snaps into his backside.”

I looked on intently as he demonstrated. There was an almighty “Crack!” as the cane whacked into Namby’s tight buttocks. The boy gasped. “Felt that didn’t you lad.” The boy replied, “Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” but from where I stood he appeared sanguine. Here,” Percy handed the cane to me, “You have a go.”

My palm was sticky as I received it from him. I held it by the handle and realised immediately this gave me no control over it. “Hold it further down. Here,” Percy took my hand and guided it. I wriggled my wrist trying to get the measure of the thing. From the wobble it made I could see that the cane would be a more powerful weapon than I first supposed. I swiped it through the air and the whoosh it made as it flew sent a small shudder through my body. I stood to the boy’s left, laid the tip of the cane on his far buttock and lifted my arm as instructed. I took one, then two practice strokes. Unaccountably, my heartbeat raced. I raised the cane and then trying to get the correct wrist action I brought it down across the seat of the short trousers.

I was very pleased that it landed where I had intended. “How was that lad?” Percy sipped on his gin. “Sorry Mr Manners, sir,” he said, “I didn’t feel that one.” Percy put down his glass. “Here,” he stood behind me, “Let me help.” He instructed me to lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. Then, he leaned across my body bringing his mouth so close to my face I could smell the gin on his breath. He held my hand in his and directed the cane so it made an arc. Then he guided my wrist so that it made the final snap. “There,” he said. “Try again.” He was very patient with me and I could tell he was an excellent teacher. I would bet the boys loved him.

I took my aim once more. This time I put more beef into the final delivery. It landed with more power. “Better Mr Manners, sir,” Namby said without being asked. I allowed myself a small smile and tried again. This one elicited a gasp from the boy. I wasn’t sure if he truly was in some pain or it was only meant as a gesture of encouragement. Either way, I laid on another and then another. My aim each time was true and each landed with increased force.

“Good,” Percy beamed encouragingly. “Right, Namby brace yourself.” Percy winked at me and said, “Go on. Give him a real six-of-the-best. Make him feel it.” I noticed Namby’s body stiffen, his legs straightened a little and he gripped the seat cushion. He at least had the confidence that I could deliver. I took a deep breath. For the first time I noticed the shape of Namby’s bottom. It was well rounded when stretched across the sofa. His legs were not muscular. This and the short trousers emphasised the buttocks as a target. Trying to remember my instructions, I put the cane across his bottom, taking a horizontal aim. Satisfied by this, I drew the cane back slowly in an arc and keeping my eye on the target I whipped the forearm and wrist. Bingo! Bang on target. Namby’s shoulders stiffened, but he made no sound. I was certain he had felt that one.

I gave myself perhaps twenty seconds to settle and repeated the manoeuvre. The stroke landed about a quarter inch below the first. The third stroke cut between the two. That made Namby gasp. Now, he had three cuts and a throbbing strip of flesh about an inch wide across both cheeks. He wriggled his hips. He was not faking this. My confidence was sky high. I allowed myself to believe I was good at this. A natural even. Whack! Number four landed on top of one (or possible more) of the previous cuts. Namby’s legs flinched. Air hissed through his pursed lips.

The next I landed with full force. I hit so hard I might have been beating a carpet. Namby yelped. I heard Percy speak, “Steady on man.” His voice seemed to be coming from a long distance. My heartbeat was racing and blood rushed to my ears. The room was hotter than ever. I lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. This was to be the final stroke. I wanted it to be memorable. I touched it low down just below where the buttock cheek meets the thigh. It was in fact touching the back of his thigh. The area was still covered by his trousers. I raised the cane, brought it forward, snapped my wrist and left the boy with a red-hot line of fire. His head rose, he let out a yelp, but just in time he managed to prevent his feet from stomping up and down with the agony.

I admired my handiwork. There were thin lines embossed into the tight material of his short trousers where the cane had landed. I was no expert but I presumed his bottom was welted. That’s how it should be, I thought. A caning should be awesome, otherwise both Namby and I should be wasting our time. He remained bent over the sofa, bottom still held high and his head low. His breathing was regular, I am sure he felt pain, but he was not in any agony. Next time, I thought, I would lay it on with more vigour. The boys in my charge must learn I am not a man to be trifled with.

“Stand up lad,” Percy gave the command. I was too engrossed in my own thoughts. The boy scrambled to his feet. His face was scarlet but I could see his eyes were dry. I should concede that perhaps Namby was a more practised receiver of a caning than I was a giver. I had no way of knowing if a less experienced boy would have reacted differently.

I could feel Percy’s eyes burning into me. “You should go now Namby,” he said.

“Yes sir, Mr Manners. Thank you sir,” he said and he offered me his hand to shake. I, my face burning with confusion, shook it. After the door closed behind him I stood in the middle of the room dumbfounded. I still held the cane in my hand and looked at it as if only now seeing it for the first time. I was light-headed and I blamed this on the gin. “You did very well. You learned a good lesson there,” he said. I mumbled some kind of agreement. I hardly heard him, my senses were somewhere else; I was at a place where I had never been.

Percy smiled at me and moved across the room. He held out his hand so I could return the cane to him. As I did so our eyes met. He smiled. “You passed the first test. You know how to deliver a caning.” He paused for an exceedingly long time. I felt my throat tighten. My temples throbbed. He glanced at the cane in his hands, then looked at me straight in the eye. “Do you think you should also learn how it feels to take a caning.”

“Oh yes please Mr Manners, sir,” I wheezed before I stepped forward and dived over the back of the sofa. Then, I wriggled about a bit making certain that my head was low and bottom high.

 

Picture credit: unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Crammer College

z used drawing classroom Hot (14)

SCENE. The principal’s office at Brocklehurst College, a “crammer” for young men who have failed their A-level school examinations. Five assorted eighteen-year-old boys are lined up ill-at-ease in front of the Principal’s desk. The Principal is speaking.

Stand up straight, all of you! You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. You failed your A-level examinations and now we have little more than two months to prepare to retake them.

None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

Here we use corporal punishment.

Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.

We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.

Good, it seems that I do.

Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey and blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.

Silence!

You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?

Is that clear!

Good.

You boy, what’s your name?

We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir.

Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?

Well boy?

Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears.

So, why have you not followed the instruction?

Sir! I have already told you that you must always address me as, Sir.

So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.

Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.

Be quiet. All of you.

Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.

Be quiet.

Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.

I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?

Right. You four boys go to the dormitory and change. You. Wendersley. Stay behind.

Right let me deal with you Wendersley. Please take that armchair there and turn it round so that its back faces into the room.

Thank you.

Ah, it would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.

I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.

Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.

Please stand behind the chair.

Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.

Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college.

Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?

No, I thought not.

Stand by the chair.

Closer boy.

I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down.

Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.

I am waiting Wendersley.

Ha! Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.

Now, bend over the chair.

Quickly.

Keep your head low and your bottom high.

That’s right. Here is the first stroke.

Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.

Back over.

Number two.

Doh! Keep still.

Three.

I shall not tell you again.

Four.

Stop your blubbing, take it like a man.

Five.

Keep those legs still.

Last stroke.

You may stand up Wendersley.

Stop rubbing your bottom.

Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.

Stand there.

Here, take this and wipe your eyes.

I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

You are dismissed.

 

SCENE Some days later in a classroom after a geography test. The geography master and a student are alone.

Well, Hill, fifty-two percent; that’s pretty dismal don’t you think?

It’s nowhere near A-level standard, boy. You should have been able to answer these questions at GCSE, lad.

You need to buck your ideas up.

Yes, you do.

Please fetch me that plimsoll.

Hill. Fetch me that plimsoll.

Hand it here, boy. Hand it here. Thank you.

Stand there beside me.

Look, Hill. If you make me repeat everything I shall make sure I also repeat the number of stokes I give you. Do you want double?

No, I thought not.

Stand there.

Come closer.

Now, take down your shorts.

Hill!

Quickly.

That’s better.

Over my knee.

Doh! Come here.

Put you head lower.

Now, give me your arm. We don’t want you going anywhere.

Stay still. Stop wriggling.

Still boy. I am going to spank you with this slipper. Just accept the inevitable. And make sure you do better in tomorrow’s test, or you’ll be across my knee again.

Let’s have these down. Oh, you weren’t expecting that? Well, Hill, it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.

Don’t fight me boy!

Hhhhhhh, if you fight me, I’ll get one of the other boys to come in to hold you down over the desk. So help me, I’ll take your backside off.

Mmmmm. The more you struggle, the harder I’m going to spank you. I can keep it up all night if I have to.

Hill! Do you want me to send you to the Principal? Do you want his cane across your bare bottom?

No, I didn’t think so.

Stay still, take your punishment.

Twelve more, then we’re done.

 

Picture Credit: The Hotspur

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Making the Grade

used drawing paddle hold (16)

 

“Look at these grades. I’ve failed psychology.” Randy Caulfield was despondent.

He pushed the printed transcript across the table to his friend Seth. The nineteen-year-old student studied the paper carefully, as if a careful examination might change the ‘F’ into a pass.

He took a long pull on his iced cola, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I had a place lined up at school and now look at this.” Randy waved the transcript in the air dramatically.

“I’ve got A’s in just about everything else. But, this goddam fail means I can’t go,” Randy felt like weeping. His life was over. Ahead lay forty-five years of dead-end jobs.

“It was the only elective I could get. All the others were full. What good is psychology anyway?” Randy’s bitterness spilled over.

“But it’s only an elective course, does it count?” Seth was trying to be supportive, but he knew it did matter.

At John F. Kennedy Community College you had to pass all your courses, even when your overall grade point average was a pass.

“Do you know,” Randy said, “If I got a bare pass in the psychology, my GPA would still be good enough to take me to university.”

“Who teaches the course?” Seth had the germ of an idea.

“Drake, d’you know him?”

“Yes, I think so. Youngish man, only been here a couple of years,” Seth replied, trying not to let on that he knew more than he was saying.

“Yes, that’s him. A goddam awful teacher, no wonder I never learned anything,” Randy said, and then as an afterthought, “I wonder how many others failed.” He was wondering if he would win an appeal against the grading.

“You should talk to him, this Drake.  Tell him what’s happened. Ask him to pass you,” Seth knew he had to tread carefully.

“Would that work? Would he do it?” Randy doubted it.

“Make an appointment. Go see him. What is there to lose?” Seth drained his cola and stood up to leave.

If the rumours Seth had heard were true, Randy would get his pass; but he would have to pay a price for it.

….

Randy got his appointment to see Drake, but he had to wait until six in the evening. The semester was over and John F. Kennedy Community College was nearly deserted as he made his way to Drake’s office, hidden away at the end of a corridor on the eighth floor of the main building.

As he exited the elevator he saw Mark Cheyne, a fellow psychology student, hurrying down the corridor. He was ashen faced and his eyes shone like hot coals. Randy growled “Watch it!” as Mark pushed him out of the way before disappearing into the elevator.

It was late and the support staff had all gone home. There did not seem to be anyone around, so he walked down the corridor reading name plates until he found: T. E. Drake. Suddenly, overtaken by nerves, Randy hesitated. Something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. Checking that nobody else was in the corridor, the teenager put his ear to the door. He had no clue why he did that, or what he expected to hear. In fact, he heard nothing; there was nothing to hear.

Shaking his head (what a fool he was), he tapped on the door and was greeted by a firm “Come in!”

It was an ordinary office and very modern. The furniture, such of it that there was, was made from light pine. A desk and computer table dominated the small room and there were two ‘bucket type’ chairs for guests. The walls were lined with shelving upon which Drake piled high books and journals. It was about as untidy as any other lecturer’s office Randy had ever visited.

Behind the desk, working at the computer was Drake. Seth had described him well; he was a young man, hardly out of university himself. His wide open face and floppy fair hair gave him the appearance of a much younger person.

He looked up, removed his glasses, and peered at Randy.

“And you are?” Drake feigned not to know the nineteen-year-old student he had failed to teach all semester, but he knew very well who he was. And, he knew why he was here.

“I’m Randy Caulfield,” he began, before adding ‘Sir,” as if he were back at Junior High.

Drake liked that. “Sir!” Yes, he thought, this boy had the correct attitude.

“And why are you here?”

Randy launched into a prepared speech about his grade, it being an elective course, how he was an A-student and how his future would be ruined if he could not take his place at the university.

Drake listened impassively. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted a little fun first.

“Why should I give students grades they do not deserve?”

Randy had no coherent answer to that, so just mumbled about his lost university place.

Drake stood up from his computer and walked around his desk so that he was next to Randy.

“It is important that I treat all my students in the same way, he intoned pompously, recalling in his mind Mark Cheyne’s visit to his office not ten minutes previously.

“Yes, sir … I know … but …” Randy tailed off.

There he went again: “Sir.”

Drake paced his office. “You are a lazy student Caulfield and you cannot be allowed to get away with it!” He was firm and determined to make the teenager suffer.

Randy did not think himself lazy, his A-grades in other course proved that. He was a chemist and one day would distinguish himself in the science. He was a good student, but he was just was not cut out for psychology.

He should tell Drake this, he thought, but he could not find the words. Disheartened by his wasted journey, he prepared to leave.

Startled that he might lose a golden opportunity, Drake said, “No, don’t go yet. There might be something I can do for you.”

Puzzled, Randy swung round to face the lecturer.

“You are lazy and you must be taught a lesson. But, I do not want to destroy what might prove to be a promising career. You can be punished in some other way.”

Drake’s words came easily. He had said the same, or something very similar, to many students already that day. He had rehearsed them well and in his own mind what he was about to propose was reasonableness itself.

“If you behaved like this in High School, you would be sent to the principal’s office, would you not.”

Randy was not so sure. “Maybe. I guess,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘maybe’ about it,” Drake’s certainty was not to be questioned.

Randy stood silent. What exactly was happening here?

“And the principal would more than likely give you swats with one of these,” and Drake opened a cupboard door, reached in and took out a spanking paddle.

Randy’s face glowed red with embarrassment. Drake wanted to paddle him.

“So what do you say? If you take a licking and atone for your laziness, I will raise your grade to a pass.” Drake smacked the paddle down into the palm of his hand and stared intently at the teenager as he waited for Randy to respond.

Randy could not take his eyes off the wood Drake wanted to use to beat his ass. It was a typical school paddle, about fifteen inches long and five wide. It was maybe a half an inch thick. Some joker had written ‘Board of Education’ on one side of the blade.

Randy was breathless. Was the man serious? Could he actually do this? Was it even legal?

The boy said none of this aloud, but Drake could read his thoughts.

“It is the solution. You know it is Randy.” This was the first time the man had ever called him by his first name.

“Come. Let’s get this over with,” Drake said as he moved one of the bucket chairs into the centre of the room.

Randy was in a trance. Later when he recounted his story to Seth (who knew all about Drake’s little game) there were many parts of the action he could not remember.

“Bend over the chair, Randy.”

He meekly did as he was told and bent down. It was a small chair with a low back. Drake had Randy move back a bit, using the paddle against his legs and inner thighs to guide him to spread his legs until they were about shoulder-width apart.  Then Drake tugged at Randy’s jeans until they stretched across his buttocks like a second skin.

Then, Swat! The first one landed in the center of his backside. Randy let out a loud yelp and hung on for dear life as he furiously stamped his feet trying to get the sting out of his poor butt.

Drake did not mind if Randy kicked about, as long as he stayed in position.

Randy was gasping for breath as if he would never end off gasping, then he clenched his teeth to try to stop yelling again as swat number two connected. The paddle stung like fire and he was surprised how loud a sound it made when it landed across his bent-over behind. All he could say was Ow, ow, ow!!! again and again.

After two dozen swats had connected it was over. Randy let go of the chair and jumped up and down, hollering in pain, his hands frantically trying to soothe the unquenchable heat burning every square inch of his poor butt. His eyes were welled up with tears but he did not care. He was way past the point of being embarrassed about tears or about the show he was putting on as he tried to stop the burn. After a minute or so of carrying on, he stopped dancing up and down and just stood still and rubbed.

Drake stood there paddle in hand just watching Randy with a look of satisfaction on his face that seemed to say: job well done.

And, it was a job well done. Drake had satisfied himself. He could with a clear conscience delete Randy’s failed grade and replace it with a pass.

Randy heard the news in silence. He had regained control of his breathing and the red heat in his throbbing buttocks was cooling.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he tramped out of the office; his place at the university saved.

At the end of the corridor the elevator opened and out stepped Phil King, another psychology student.

“Good luck!” Randy said to the puzzled classmate before pressing the button for the lobby.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

Other stories you might like

Dad’s revenge

The sleep over

Taming Timothy

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

collection-of-spanking-stories-vol-1-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here

 

Bible College

z used paddle twosome bible college

“Each of you take down your jeans and your underwear and bend yourselves across my desk.” Rev. Paisley tapped the wooden paddle into the palm of his hand and watched intently as Jackson and Manning fumbled with belt buckles. Avoiding each other’s’ eyes, the two students slipped the jeans to their thighs. Gravity took the heavy denim to the floor. Jackson pushed his white briefs to his knees, leant forward and rested his elbows on the small wooden desk. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend this was not happening. In seconds he felt his classmate Manning take up his position by his side. Two twenty-one-year-olds, buttocks bared. Ready, waiting for the sting of the paddle.

Rev. Paisley loved the end of term at Todd Carter Bible College, it gave him the opportunity to perform God’s will and guide more young men on the path to righteousness. The College had a simple rule. It was an incentive, the school principal declared. It made the young men study harder. After all, he had said, who would want their butt toasted? So, in every class, after the exams were finished the two students with the lowest test score showed Rev. Paisley their bared buttocks.

They didn’t have to fail the test – just come last. So it was that in theory (at least) they might all be A-students, but arithmetically someone had to be at the end of the line.

Rev. Paisley swiped the paddle through the air. He was nearly ready. They had said prayers together. Sought God’s guidance. Ten swats each. It was God’s will. Rev. Paisley gripped the handle tightly. As paddles went it was no monster. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide. In the right hands it would pack a punch. And, Rev. Paisley was an expert. It came with practice. Jackson and Manning owned the third pair of buttocks he had beaten that afternoon.

Jackson and Manning were typical students at Todd Carter’s; neither tall nor short. Not fat, not thin. You might say they were standard. Typical. Average. Normal, even. Rev. Paisley felt Jackson’s body tense as he rubbed the wood across the centre of the young man’s buttocks. The flesh wobbled when he pressed the paddle in. He raised it shoulder high and with a rush crashed it home. He was rewarded by a bright pink mark on the buttock and a slow hiss as Jackson emptied his lungs.

Satisfied with his work so far, Rev. Paisley reached across to Manning, placed his hand on the student’s back to steady himself and let fly. Manning’ head shot up and shook violently from left to right. That hurt. A lot.

The tip of the good reverend’s tongue wetted his top lip.  He raised the paddle once more.

 

Other stories you might like

The milk bottle thief

The glorious summer

The imp next door

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Brocklehurst crammer

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Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with distain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen year old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.

“Good.”

Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for.  If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about three inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s distain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caned at college

It made perfect sense to introduce corporal punishment into Britain’s sixth-form colleges. The cane had been brought back into schools two years earlier and many sixth-formers had been ordered to present their backsides for a traditional six-of-the-best in the time since.

Parents and the public generally welcomed the new disciplinary regime. There was talk that soon courts would be allowed to sentence young criminals to thrashings. An on-line petition collected hundreds of thousands of signatures for the beatings to be broadcast on television.

Sixth-form colleges catered for youngsters up to the age of nineteen who had attended schools that did not have their own sixth forms. The students were no different from their counterparts who still attended school.

Downside College took the opportunity of the new spirit in the air to introduce a dress code for students. The senior staff had wanted to have formal uniforms, with blazers and ties, but parents baulked at the cost of this. Instead jeans and tee-shirts were banned and male students had to wear proper trousers, shirts with collars, ties, jackets and smart shoes. Some of the dandies among them took to wearing sharp mohair suits, imitating the look of the Mods from the nineteen-sixties.

Not all the students obeyed the new rules.

Ian Stranger stood head bowed. He stared intently at the beige carpet beneath his feet. His heart raced and he was finding it hard to catch his breath.

Mr Troughton, the college principal, sat behind his desk. He was a youngish man, with a florid fleshy face and receding sandy hair. Fat rolled over the waistband of his trousers. His crisp white shirt was wet under the armpits, even though the room itself was quite cold.

“You know the rules about dress, Stranger.” It was a statement rather than a question. The principal pursed his lips and pressed the fingers of his hands together as if in prayer.

Ian continued staring. Blood was pumping so fast through his body he feared his ears would pop.

“You were all told that if you came to college improperly dressed you would be sent home to change. If you did it again you would get a caning.” He spoke quietly. He had not expected a student to disobey this rule. Why on earth would they, he thought. The dress code was hardly onerous. Every student would have the correct clothes in their wardrobe at home. It was no trouble to wear them.

No, Mr Troughton pondered silently, this was not about the dress code. Stranger was deliberately flouting the rules. He thought they shouldn’t apply to him. It was rebellion of sorts. That could not be tolerated. He must be beaten severely. For his own good and to deter others.

Ian was eighteen years old. Soon he would pass his A-level exams with flying colours and go on to university. He was a good, able student. But, he was distracted.

He spent much of his time on-line seeking out videos and stories about corporal punishment in schools. His favourites were the stories about St FIGS – St Francis Independent Grammar School. They were set in the nineteen-sixties. St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional uniforms and traditional discipline.

He loved to read them and fantasise that he was one of the sixth-formers in the headmaster’s study, bent over the armchair, his trousers at his ankles, his pants at his knees, while Dr Henderson-Smith swiped a dragon cane with considerable force across his bared buttocks.

Ian had gone so far as to get himself a pair of school short trousers on the Internet. They were the real deal with sharp creases and they came to just above his knees. He got long socks, a grey shirt and old-fashioned white Y-front underpants from Marks & Spencer. He was too scared to wear his school uniform in public, but when the rest of his family were out of the flat he loved to dress up and play the naughty schoolboy, bending over the back of an armchair pretending it was a headmaster’s study.

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It was one of the St FIGS’ stories that gave him the idea. The headmaster had banned snowball fighting. The penalty for disobedience: the cane. One eighteen-year-old chucked some snow. He was caught.

It turned out the boy had never been caned before and this was his way of finding out what it was like.

The dress code was Ian Stranger’s snowball. Now, he too would get his first-ever caning.

Downside was not as grand as St FIGS. Where the grammar school had oak panelling, the college had chipboard and pine. Principal Troughton had no academic gown or mortar-board cap. But, he had one crucial prop: an authentic crook-handled school cane.

Principal Troughton sighed deeply as if he were single-handedly carrying all the troubles of the rapidly changing world on his shoulders.

“You cannot say that you were not warned, Stranger,” he looked at the slim dark-haired boy standing before him. The teenager’s face was scarlet and perspiration dampened his forehead. The boy must be terrified of the beating he was about to get, Troughton thought.

The principal hauled himself from his chair and waddled to the opposite end of the room. Ian Stranger watched in anticipation as Troughton pulled open the drawer of a table. Ian could not see inside, but he heard the distinctive rattle of several whippy canes as they rolled around.

Troughton was an enthusiastic supporter of the new law on caning. He had known for years that youngsters did not know right from wrong. Boundaries were no longer set. They were allowed to get away with anything. They got high on drugs, vandalised the town, terrorised ordinary descent people on the streets.

He believed in corporal punishment. He always had done. But in the past he had remained silent. To advocate the cane would have been career suicide. Now, public opinion had changed and Principal Troughton was on the winning side.

He reached into the drawer and extracted a thin yellow cane. He peered at it as if he had never seen it before, even though the weapon in question had seen action only an hour earlier. But, this time, he thought, it would not be up to the job. He slid it back in the drawer and fished around until he found what he was looking for.

It was dark brown, more than three feet long and as thick as a little finger. There were notches every three or four inches along its length. These would cause considerable bruising to a boy’s backside and bleeding if delivered across bared buttocks.

Principal Troughton flexed the cane between his two hands. Despite its thickness it curved easily. Yes, he thought, he would dearly love to put this little beauty across the teenager’s naked haunches, but (as yet anyway) this was not allowed.

Ian Stranger watched in wonder. He had seen many school canes in the CP videos he loved to watch, but this was the first time he had seen one in real life. It looked awesome.

Principal Troughton swished the rod through the air with some force. It made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went.

Ian Stranger gaped. This could take his arse off. He had seen enough videos to know the damage a cane could do to a pair of buttocks. But, he was not naïve; he knew the headmasters in the vids went easy and camera angles made the canings look more severe than they really were.

Here, today, with Principal Troughton, he would experience the real thing.

Swish! The cane flew once more across empty air.

“Stand there,” Principal Troughton pointed to a space in the centre of the office.

Obediently, Ian moved into position.

“Face the other way. Bend over. Place the palms of our hands on your shins. Feet apart. Knees straight.”

Principal Troughton had thrashed many students, but none before had assumed the position so readily. Ian gripped the cotton of his cream chino trousers and thrust his bottom out. In this position he had a perfect view of his own crotch. It was beginning to bulge. It was not yet erect, but he felt it was on the move.

The principal eyed the teenager’s backside. His wide leather belt was so long and the boy’s hips so narrow, that it wrapped one-and-a-half times around his waist. The chino trousers were quite thick and would give the student some protection against the onslaught of the cane. Troughton dearly wished he could order the rebellious teenager to lower them to his ankles.

But he could not. So, he would have to make sure each of the six strokes (the maximum allowed) was a humdinger.

Troughton gripped Stranger’s tee-shirt and pushed it up his back to expose several inches of bare, hairless flesh. It was not strictly necessary to do this as the shirt was not covering the teen’s buttocks but the principal believed it added to the drama of the occasion.

Stranger stared down at his grubby Nike trainers. It was not like that in the St FIGS stories he loved so much. He tried to imagine himself dressed in immaculate school uniform, draped across Dr Henderson-Smith’s armchair, as the headmaster readied himself to deliver an exemplary six-of-the-best. He felt the rattan cane being tapped across the very centre of both buttocks.

What Stranger did not see was the tubby, sweaty principal lift the cane high and then with a swing of his hips, rather like a golfer teeing off, he brought it down with tremendous energy into the seat of the chinos.

Stranger heard the crack as the cane connected with his backside a split-second or so before he felt it. The pain was searing. It felt like someone had rubbed a red-hot poker across his bum. Air rushed from his body and through his pursed lips. He did not yell, but he wheezed: again and again and again as the agony seemed to squeeze all the breath out of his body.

He gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly to prevent himself from standing and jumping up and down.

“Keep perfectly still.” Principal Troughton tapped the cane once more across Stranger’s buttocks. This time a fraction of an inch lower than the first. Stranger screwed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth. Troughton sucked a great gasp of air right down into his lungs, raised the cane once more and repeated the golf swing.

Despite all his fantasising, Stranger could not have anticipated the pain. It was a hundred times worse than anything he had felt before. His eyes blazed and his body began to vibrate. His cock was limp. Blood was rushing north-south, east-west, throughout his body; but none wanted to travel to his groin.

Then the third stroke whipped hard into his battered bottom. The pain was intense, burning: unendurable.

The final three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into his tight buttocks; just where the cheeks met the thighs. Stranger could not help it; he yelled fit to bring the walls of the office crashing down. He clung onto his calves, fingernails biting so deep they would leave scars that would take hours to clear.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, he tried to catch his breath. His heartbeat pulsated and phlegm rose in his throat. Any second now he feared he would spew a stream of vomit.

The intense agony which started in his buttocks travelled through his whole body. His face and neck were as scarlet as his backside probably was.

Principal Troughton admired his handiwork. Six tramlines were clearly visible across the seat of the chinos, all delivered in a tight group. He was proud of his expertise. He was gaining a deserved reputation among the students as an awesome caner.

He could see Stranger was in some distress. Troughton could not see the teenager’s face, but he appeared to be crying. The lad’s shoulders were certainly heaving.

Quietly, he returned the cane to its resting place in the drawer. Then turning to Stranger he said quietly, “That’s it. It’s over. You can stand up now.”

Slowly the student straightened. The pain was easing a little now, but he could feel welts had risen low down across both buttocks. They would be tender for some time to come. Sitting down might be a little uncomfortable.

He was in control of himself now. His eyes were wet, but no tears flowed.

He waited silently while Principal Troughton busied himself writing details in the punishment book. He was startled at how his own hand shook as he tried to write his signature.

Moments later he was in the street making his way to his home. The agony had subsided into a warm throbbing and would clear completely before he reached his council estate.

His first real-life experience of corporal punishment was over. It had been intense, awesome, breath-taking, amazing, wonderful, incredible. And, he could not wait to repeat it.

 

Other stories you might like

Snowballs

Warren’s awakening

The coach and the schoolmaster

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com