The smoking schoolboy

z used drawing smoking (1)

“You’d better not let Perkins catch you smoking. You know what he said. It’ll be a swishing,” Templeton groaned.

Baxter, leaned back in the study armchair, drew on his cigarette and sucked the smoke into his lungs before holding it there. Then, very slowly he exhaled noisily.

Templeton was not impressed. He sniffed the fug in the air. “This study will stink of tobacco. I don’t want to get the blame for you.”

Baxter sneered. “This place is turning into a madhouse. What’s Fletch’s game?”

That was a question many boys at the school had asked since Dr. Fletcher had arrived as the new headmaster. He had told the sixth-form that he was a “new broom.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Gallagher had asked his fellows. None of them knew for sure at the time. But, they were soon to find out.

“The school has gone to the dogs,” Dr. Fletcher had announced. “Things must improve and quickly,” he decreed to Perkins, the school captain. “And,” he stubbed a finger in the eighteen-year-old’s face provocatively, “I expect you to make the changes.”

Perkins blanched. What was he expected to do?

“Start with the sixth-form and the prefects,” Dr. Fletcher poked the finger again. “Once they understand the rules are for everyone, the rest of the school will soon fall in line.”

Perkins looked dumbfounded, so his new headmaster spelled it out clearly.

“Let them know that lights out and curfew applies to them also. No smoking. No alcohol. Come on boy, you know the sort of thing.”

Perkins nodded uncertainly. He knew the sort of thing, but what was he supposed to do when his fellow prefects and sixth-formers broke the rules?

“Beat them boy. Beat them,” Dr. Fetcher growled in response to the question. “I want to see you take the lead,” the headmaster leaned into Perkins’ face provokingly. “It’s up to you Perkins. I’m relying on you.”

The school captain had never felt so threatened in his life. His arse was quite literally on the line. If he didn’t get the seniors to buck up their ideas and improve their behaviour, it would be Perkins in the head’s study offering up his backside to Dr. Fletcher.

“It’s madness,” Baxter shifted his position in the chair. “I’m eighteen damn it. Does Fletch think that when my father sees me smoking at home, he makes me bend over for six with a cane?” He snorted a derisive answer to his own question.

“If we were day boys at school, would we be taken over nanny’s knee at home for a spanking with the slipper because we weren’t tucked up in bed by nine-thirty?” His eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Why does Fletch insist on treating us like little children?”

Just then the study door opened and Gallagher entered. “My hat, Baxter,” he exclaimed, waving his arms frantically to clear the air. “Can’t you be more blatant about it? One would think you positively wanted Perky to tan your arse.”

Baxter drew more cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, creased his nose and glared disdainfully at Gallagher. “No, I leave that sort of thing to you, old bean.” His eyes sparkled and he relished in Gallagher’s discomfiture as his companion’s face took on a deep shade of beetroot.

Baxter leaned back in his armchair, one foot at rest on a wooden chair, blew smoke at the ceiling, and steadfastly ignored his chums in the study. Each of us have different talents; that is God’s gift to us all. Baxter’s talent was sneering. He was disdainful of the scholar, the boys with noses buried in books. He derided the rugger buggers who huffed and puffed across wet, muddy fields in pursuit of glory for the school. He jeered at any boy who took anything seriously. Now, he professed to scoff at Perkins, the sincere school captain forced on a mission to improve the morals of his flock.

 

@

 

Perkins paced the passageway, shoulders slumped, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. A decision had to be made; he had put it off for far too long. If matters did not improve immediately, Dr. Fletcher would be on his back. Rather, he would be on Perkins’s backside. With a stout whippy cane (or heaven forbid) a heavy birch rod. Perkins was captain of rugby. He was captain of cricket too; he knew the value of decisive leadership. He sighed as if he carried the whole world’s troubles on his young shoulders.

He had no choice in the matter: Baxter must be beaten. The decision made, Perkins shuffled towards study no. 2 where he was sure to find the culprit.

The school captain shoved open the heavy wooden door with more confidence than he really felt. Three pairs of eyes burned into him as he stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. Perkins cut an imposing stature, He was at least six-feet-two, broad at the shoulders, rounded of chest, with narrow hips. His muscles had been developed on many sporting fields. He had biceps that would make a navvy proud.

“You’re brazen, Baxter. You don’t even have the courtesy to hide it,” he snarled at the figure slumped in the armchair surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. Baxter flapped the wrist holding the offending cigarette and grimaced.

His unspoken message was clear, “What’s a fellow to do; these school rules are so darned tedious.”

Perkins stretched his arms wide, he made a formidable foe framed by the stout doorway.

“You know the rules Baxter. Dr. Fletcher has spoken them clearly,” Perkins face flushed.

He received another limp-wristed wave for his trouble.

Damn Baxter’s impertinence. Perkins was fuming now. “That’s it Baxter. I’m going to beat you. You give me no choice.”

“Ha!” the solitary word spat from Baxter’s mouth. He leaned forward and ostentatiously stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. “I really don’t think so, old bean,” he beamed. The matter, he had decided was at an end.

Perkins strode into the study and stood over the seated sixth-former. “Stand up. Come with me,” his voice faltered; it had not been as clear a command as he had wished. Baxter waved his arm, dismissing his superior. Perkins knew his ears were reddening. He did not like to be confronted. He did not expect it. In a school such as this there were clear understandings. Some people were the bosses; the others the bossed. Baxter should darned well know his place.

“C’mon Baxter,” Gallagher who had been observing proceedings from a seat in the corner of the study, piped up. “You know Fletch told Perky he had to clean up the Sixth. That means you. If he doesn’t he’s probably got a birching to look forward to.”

“That’s right,” Templeton joined in. “If you don’t take a punishment and mend your ways, Perky will cop it.” Templeton was a self-righteous boy and many of his fellows despised him for it, but they would have to agree he was correct on this occasion.

“Do you have no honour?” Templeton’s question stunned the occupants of Study no. 2 into silence.

Honour? A chap should never let another fellow be punished for his own misdeeds.

Gallagher stirred in his chair. “If you let Perky down, the whole school will know about it. You’ll be ostracised; sent to Coventry.”

A moral high-ground was being constructed. Perkins took his chance. “Come with me Baxter. We should visit the Punishment Room.” Baxter could not mistake the glint in the school captain’s dark brown eyes. The unspoken message was clear,

Perkins walked slowly to the study door, paused for dramatic effect and then turned the handle. He eased the door open, knowing that all eyes in the room blazed on him. “Follow me, Baxter,” he said quietly and without looking back he exited the room safe in the knowledge that Baxter would be following on his heels.

The Punishment Room was really only an ordinary classroom, set aside for a particular purpose. The room was used for detention classes. It was about ten feet by ten and contained a half dozen wooden forms and desks. A rickety wooden teacher’s desk stood at the front with an uncomfortable chair behind it. Behind that and nailed to the wall were three metal hooks. From one dangled a stout, dark-yellow, curve-handled, whippy, rattan punishment cane. The “business end” was a little more than three feet in length and it was a little thicker than a pencil. It had been delivered with some vim across a generation of young gentlemen’s backsides and was a little warped.

A diffused light entered the room through a small window high on the wall. No boy could idly gaze out into the world from this classroom. Gloom enveloped the airless room.

Baxter stood silently watching Perkins prepare himself. Baxter placed his hands behind his back, his feet were slightly apart. His kept a steady gaze on the school captain, noticing the muscles in Perkins’s back flex when he picked up the teacher’s chair to carry it across the room and place it in an open space in front of the schoolboy desks. Perkin’s striped trousers stretched across his round, meaty buttocks as he leant forward.

Baxter ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth; all saliva had dried. He wished he hadn’t smoked quite so many cigarettes that day. Perkins returned to the teacher’s desk and silently divested himself of his jacket and let it fall on the heavily-marked desktop.

Baxter’s tongue still worked hard to moisten his mouth as he watched the school captain slowly take the cuff of the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and slowly, meticulously, roll it up by two inches. Then he rolled it once more. Then, again. In this way, the taut muscles in Perkin’s arm were gradually exposed to the warm air.

He turned to Baxter, studying the teenager’s demeanour. His clear blue eyes were dim. In his mind, Baxter seemed to be somewhere else. Not here, in this small, hot room about to be thrashed on the backside with a stout whippy cane by a boy of his same age.

“Take off your coat, put it there,” Perkins nodded across the room to his own jacket. Baxter crinkled his nose, as if a sudden bad odour had seeped into the room. He glanced across at his tormentor, wrinkled his nose again and slowly stepped across the room. His hands shook violently as he undid the buttons and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He laid it neatly on the desk beside the other coat lying there.

He paused, as if some thought had just struck him. He turned his body, faced Perkins full on, and with a slight arching of his eyebrow indicated the waistcoat he was wearing.

“Yes, take that off too.” It was a quiet, simple instruction. With a little more confidence than earlier, Baxter removed it and let it drop on top of his jacket.

“Stand by the chair.”

Baxter ran his tongue across dry, cracked lips. Why was his heart pounding so hard, he wondered? He had been beaten countless times in the past. It was that kind of school. A cane or ashplant laid on with power could hurt like crazy. Sometimes the marks lasted days; a week even. The agony was excruciating at the moment the rod swiped across the stretched buttocks. But, it quickly eased into a throbbing pain, to be followed by a warm glow.

Whatever his school captain had in store for him, Baxter was certain he would live through it.

He stood in front of the chair, hands behind his back and watched intently as Perkins reached up to the hook on the wall and took down the rattan cane.

He flexed it between his hands. The school captain always marvelled at how light these things were. Like, his chum Baxter, Perkins had had his buttocks blistered many times. How, he wondered, could something so light, inflict such damage?

Baxter watched as Perkins swished the rod through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing noise as it went. Perkins’s big brown eyes sparkled as he felt the power of the rod in his hands.

Then there was silence. It was time to get on with this. One eighteen-year-old schoolboy was to thrash another with a whippy cane across the backside. All in the name of school discipline. Perkins’s own heart thumped. This was not the first time he had wielded the cane; why, he wondered was he so tense this time?

“C’mon, let’s get on with this,” he croaked, swishing the cane one more time. Baxter kept a steady eye contact with his punisher and mimed unbuckling his own belt. Perkins’s flushed pink. “No, no,” he blustered. “Just bend over.”

Baxter turned his back, set his feet about a yard apart, arched his back and grasped the side of the seat of the wooden chair. To stop his eyes continuously blinking he stared intently at a gnarled knothole. He heard Pekins’s feet shuffle behind him, he was taking up his position. In his mind’s eye, Baxter pictured the imposing school captain flexing his muscles, cane in hand, finding his aim. He felt the cane tap the underside of his buttocks, just where they met the thighs. He held his breath, shut his teeth, screwed his eyes tight and waited for the first stinging swipe.

It landed with a resounding crack that echoed across the small room. Moments later, Baxter felt the pain. A rush of wind escaped his clenched teeth. Wow!! That was some cut. Already, he felt a welt was forming beneath his trousers. His buttocks shuddered and his knees bent slightly, but he held himself steady. As he waited for the next swipe. He respected the expertise of his punisher; that was quite one of the best (or, perhaps the worse) cuts he had ever been dealt.

As, he aimed the cane once more across Baxter’s buttocks (a little higher this time) Perkins admired the fortitude of his fellow sixth-former. He had taken it with stoicism. He would be in intense pain, but was determined not to let that show. Good old Baxter!

The second swipe bounced off the very centre of Baxter’s bum. The boy was no athlete and his body was covered in more than a little flesh, but when bent over the chair his raised buttocks firmed up, offering two solid meaty mounds for punishment. Perkins’s was delighted to be presented with such a target.

The third cut (high this time, just below the base of the spine) had Baxter sucking in his breath. His arse was on fire and soon he would not be able to disguise the fact from Perkins. The school captain was hurting him. A lot. All he could see was the worn wooden seat of the chair, but he was almost certain Perkins would be drained in sweat from his exertions. Or maybe not; since Perkins was some athlete, he would be used to physical strain. Baxter was unsure; which of the two images, he preferred.

Perkins paused, took a step away from the boy bent submissively before him and drank in the sight. Here was Baxter, passively offering up his bottom to him. Silently saying, “Here, do what you wish with me. In this moment, I am yours.” And, here was Perkins, anxious to take advantage. Whenever again would he get such a chance.

He gripped the cane in his right fist and positioned himself a little further to Baxter’s left, tap-tap-tapped the rod across the top of the mounds once more and let fly. The stick landed right on top of a previously-delivered cut. Baxter could not help himself. He yelped like a little whipped puppy, wriggled his bum and stamped his legs up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He steadied himself, a little ashamed at his reaction. Two strokes to go. What more did Parkins have in store for him.

Perkins adjusted himself one more time, delighting in the pain he was causing. But, he had no animosity against Baxter. His fellow sixth-former’s behaviour had been nothing personal. It was just Baxter kicking off against the school. And, Perkins had been put in an impossible position by the headmaster.

Even so, a caning should hurt. A lot. Otherwise what was the point of it? Perkins aimed once more (from the bottom left buttock to the top right). “YOWLLLLL!!” Baxter’s scream was genuine as the cane landed diagonally across his arse, slicing into the four welts that already throbbed beneath his trousers and reigniting the pain in all of them. He would discover later that blood seeped from some of the points where the cane marks intersected.

Baxter repeated the buttock wiggling and the leg stomping and added a few heaves of the shoulders for good measure, but gamely he hung on to the seat of the chair.

“Oh, no, please,” Baxter silently whined as he felt the cane rest across his buttocks once more (from the low right to the top left). Crack!!! Now, he had a perfect “X” indented across his buttocks. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bottom as blood rushed through his body to his head. His temples pulsated as much as the meat in his bum.

Perkins tucked the cane under his arm and admired his handiwork. Baxter’s buttocks twitched. How, Perkins wished he had allowed Baxter to lower his trousers and underwear. His arse must be cut to ribbons. What a sight to behold that must be.

Seconds that seemed like minutes passed. Baxter’s was getting his breathing back under control. He blinked back tears. He could not help it, it was his body’s natural reaction to the onslaught it had suffered. Suddenly, Perkins startled, as if just realising where he was. He stepped around the still-prostrated teenager and replaced the cane on the hook.

“You can remove yourself, now,” his command was haughty. Baxter jumped up, hopping from foot to foot. Perkins grinned widely. Baxter stopped his spanking dance puzzled. His stare was as good as asking the question, “What are you laughing at?”

By way of silent reply, Perkins nodded toward the huge bulge in the front of Baxter’s trousers.

Baxter’s own grin was wider than Perkins’s.

“What the deuce …?” The two eighteen-year-olds eyes met. Instant understanding. Perkins reached forward and expertly undid the buckle of the belt, unbuttoned the flies and in a single continual movement had the trousers and underwear at Baxter’s feet. The released cock pointed in Perkins’s face, the tip already glistening.

He sank to his knees and gripped Baxter’s buttocks and pulled him forward. Baxter winced as his chum’s fingers dug into his blistered cheeks, the new pain encouraging his dick to swell further. Perkins gripped the base of his cock and energetically licked it from the ball sack, along the steel-hard shaft up to the red-raw tip. Within seconds, Perkins’s face was soaked in cum. Baxter fell on his back wheezing as if his life’s breath had deserted him.

Perkins wiped his chin clean with the back of his hand. His own cock strained against the front of his trousers, demanding to be freed. His companion lay on the dusty floor still struggling to force air into his lungs.

The pain in his trousers was too great; swift action had to be taken. In one continuous movement, Perkins bent down and gripped Baxter under the armpits. Perkins had superior strength, but he didn’t need it. Baxter gave no resistance. Perkins lifted him to his feet and dragged him towards the teacher’s desk. Within a heartbeat, Perkins had Baxter facedown across it, his savaged buttocks at his mercy. A hand in the small of his back held him firm, while with the other Perkins undid his own trousers and dragged his clothes to his knees.

“Yes, yes,” Baxter wheezed and parted his legs, offering his winking hole. Perkins could see this was not a new experience for the eighteen-year-old. He held his shaft half way down and guided his cock forward and was greeted with a satisfying screech.

Upstairs in Study No 2. Gallagher and Templeton exchanged contented looks. Perkins was giving Baxter the sound flogging he so truly deserved. Order had been restored to the school.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy in the front row

used drawing paddle hold (5)

I am quite alone. The door is locked from the outside, it will not be opened until morning. Soon the light will go out, plunging me into darkness. My eyes are awash, but tears are not yet falling. Someone seems to have put my temples in a vice.

Let me try to explain what is happening. I am (sorry, I was) the headmaster of C_______________ College, the most upscale school in this part of the world. You will have heard of it; old money and tradition.

I first saw John in my English class. He is eighteen years old and a new boy. That is not unusual. We often take brilliant young scholars for a year and prepare them for a top university. John aced every test there was in his state. He is destined for great things.

It happened in the third class of the semester. John always sits at the front of the room. He reads voraciously and answers my questions with a confidence belying his years. He has his hair cut military style but has an unusual habit of running his fingers across his scalp as if he had long, flowing locks. Perhaps his crew cut is recent; a new look to go with his new life at school.

He has the most piercing green eyes I have ever encountered. They sparkle when he thinks. They are set symmetrically either side of a button nose, which hovers above slightly crooked lips. When he smiles he exposes uneven teeth. They are not tombstones, but they reflect his family’s lower income status. John is most certainly a scholarship boy.

What is it about those damn eyes? They began to haunt me. Almost literally. I dreamed of the boy night after night. As I recall nothing much happened, but he was constantly in my thoughts, beguiling me. I have a drink problem – there I confess it – but it wasn’t the wine that drove me forward. Indeed, most unusually for me, I had not touched alcohol all day.

Don’t ask me why I did it, I still don’t know the answer to that. I could have understood it had I been rip-roaring drunk. I had asked my secretary Mrs. Crabbe to bring me Mr. McAlpine’s file – we are always so formal when referring to our students. I found the number of his room at the boys’ dormitory and set off just before lights out. My wife has already gone to her bed in her own room. When did we start sleeping apart? I can’t be certain; sometime after our only son went off to the war, I think.

It is quite a trek from the headmaster’s house, through the quadrangle, and across the playing fields to the outlying buildings that comprise the dormitories. Boys and girls are kept separate, of course. It is not usual for the headmaster to visit the boys’ dormitories, but not entirely unheard of. Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, seemed a little flustered when he saw me approaching the building, suspicious perhaps that I had come to spy on him. I don’t know what goes on in the boys’ dorms at night and it would probably be injudicious to inquire.

John’s room was on the third floor at the far end of a corridor. His door was ajar and he was alone. He lay on his bed reading a book. He wore only khaki shorts, adding to his general military appearance. He looked up from his book as if he had been expecting me.  He smiled, those eyes dancing. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

John is short for his age, I think. Maybe five-seven or so. His waist is narrow and his chest broad. I suspect he uses the gym. His torso is hairless, but a fine down covers his legs. He wriggled to a seating position and reached over and set his book down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the whisky bottle. My, how I wanted to grab it and glug down its contents. John saw that I had spied the bottle. His crooked lips parted.

It is against the rules for students to have alcohol. The penalty is strict: expulsion. John knew that, but I reminded him all the same.

He ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. I watched the muscles on his arms tense. He gazed at me. “Oh,” he said, “Couldn’t you just paddle me instead.” My jaw must have dropped, or at least I gaped disbelief.

“Paddle me.”

I cannot explain what happened next. That is, I can describe what happened, but I am still unsure why it happened. I am the headmaster of C_______________ College, I am fifty-five years old and have been around young men my whole life and have never given their bodies a passing consideration. I pull him toward me awkwardly, clumsily, unannounced. I am about to do something that will change my life forever. It will in all inevitability be my ruin. He is in my arms and I kiss him forcefully on the mouth.

But, John does not retreat from me; he kisses me back. Passionately. My hands run across his scalp, it feels like petting a hedgehog. Our teeth meet, tongues grope for each other. I run my hand over his warm, smooth naked flesh. My erection presses against the front of my underpants.

Then the lights go out and we plunge into darkness. The boys’ dorm can be like a prison. It is ten-thirty and all must be in bed. John gently pushes me away. I must leave. It would be unseemly for the headmaster to be caught in the dark in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old male student.

I fumble for the door and as I leave I whisper, “My study, after school tomorrow evening.” It is a rendezvous with the paddle.

We haven’t used corporal punishment at the college since my father was headmaster. He was a devotee of the paddle, but once he retired it fell into disuse. Times, I suppose, have changed. The boys in the athletics clubs continue to use it. I believe the rowers especially paddle each other’s rear ends when they lose a race, which, now I come to think of it, is very often.

We still have my father’s paddles in storage and it is no problem for me to blow the dust off one of them. I have a fretful day. The college governors are in town and I am forced to sit through interminable committee meetings when all I want to do was stroll through the campus in the hope of catching a glimpse of my beloved John.

At last, the afternoon draws to a close. Mrs. Crabbe is tidying her desk when he arrives. She passes me a quizzical look, when she announces Mr. McAlpine is here to see me. Mrs. Crabbe keeps my diary and nobody, not even the chairman of the governors himself, gets to see me without her say-so. Why do I feel like a naughty boy found out in some misdeed? I croak that she should leave; her services are no longer needed.

I wait until from my study window I see Mrs. Crabbe pass through the quadrangle and then I order John into my study. It is a huge room befitting a man of my status at the school. At one end is my desk and cupboards for my official paperwork. At the far end are leather armchairs, a small table and bookcases. I order John to stand close to a chair. He does so without a murmur.

He is dressed in a blue jacket and cream chinos which passes for the school uniform here. His white shirt is immaculate and a wine-coloured tie is tightly knotted at his neck. His face shines. I imagine he is having second thoughts. But, it is his idea to be here. He could face expulsion and disgrace. I am sure his impoverished parents are extremely proud of him. They would die of shame.

I had placed the paddle in a drawer. I didn’t want it to attract attention, not with Mrs. Crabbe snooping around. I remind John of why we are here. He chews his bottom lip. My heart skips a beat. I want to pull him towards me and put my tongue down his throat. Instead, calmly I open the drawer and pull out the paddle. John’s eyes widen.

And, so they might. It is an awesome specimen. It is more than two feet in length and maybe four wide. Large holes have been drilled into the blade to reduce wind resistance during the swing. John appears to be sweating. His eyes follow my movements when I hold the paddle by its handle and smack the blade into my left palm. I have never spanked a boy before, but I know that this wood is capable of inflicting great pain.

“Take off your jacket, put it on the table,” I have decided he should put himself across the back of one of the leather armchairs. It is low and his buttocks will be presented perfectly. He slips the coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly on the table. The tail of his shirt is poking out of his chinos. I see they fit him tightly at the waist and a fold of cotton covers his buttocks snugly, separating each cheek.

I tap the paddle against the back of the chair. “Bend over.” I say this calmly although my heart is racing and my palms sweat. He gazes at me with those intense green eyes. I flinch a little. Then he does something truly remarkable. He moves into position behind the chair, unfastens his trousers and sends them to his ankles. He is wearing sparkling white boxer shorts. His fingers pinch the cloth at his hips and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them south to meet his chinos. He swallows hard and bends over.

I have never seen a man’s bare arse so close. His cheeks are smooth and as bald as his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the leather chair. He keeps his head low and his legs apart. I feel that this is not the first time he has submitted himself for a spanking.

I had been dreaming of this moment all day. Except in my version I am paddling the seat of John’s chinos. That in itself is an erotic vision that has my cock tingling. The sight of the eighteen-year-old’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to John’s left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! I am please Mrs. Crabbe has departed for the day since surely she would have heard the noise and come running.

A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across John’s bottom. It looks sore, but John makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles. He feels that.

I put the next two swats in the underside of John’s cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs on to the chair as the pain mounts. I admire the aesthetic effect the paddle has on his once creamy white flesh. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No square inch of flesh remains untouched.

I appreciate the look of the teenager’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered, but (and I am very nervous to discover this) I also relish the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an additional two.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

John bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick and look away fearfully, catching John’s eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all,” he cries.

Then I have John’s entire shaft in my mouth and throat, squeezing my lips tightly around the base of the eighteen-year-old’s cock.

“Argh, that is so good.’’ John’s fingers dig deep into my scalp. The scratches will be sore for hours.

John gives a low groan, “I’m cumming,” he gasps. I don’t heed the warning. My head continues the  rhythmic up and down motion on John’s rock solid cock. It throbs and I feel spurt after spurt of sticky cum being pumped up his shaft into my hungry mouth.

John pulls away. I don’t see what happens next as I am lying on the floor in the foetal position choking. Should I spit or swallow? I have visions of Mrs. Crabbe’s disapproval as she inspects the stained carpet. That is a humiliation too far; I swallow.

When I look up John has his underwear and chinos back on. He picks up his jacket and without uttering a word, he leaves my study.

I do not see John for three days. The absence is agony. I crave for his body. I need to understand what is going on. He misses my next English class. Is he punishing me? I need to know.

In despair and with half a bottle of whisky inside me, once more I go to his dorm room. He is on the bed wearing the same shorts as before. He looks up from his book as I enter, his look of distain is profound. I mumble incoherently. I am more drunk than I realise. I think I say something about love, or at least lust.

He sneers. Yes, really sneers. He an eighteen-year-old student and me the headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools in the land. But, the humiliation has only just begun.

“It’s a list,” he says, trying to explain what is happening. “Things I want to do once,” he is still lying on the bed but rests on one arm. “Get sucked off by an old man.” His eyes shrug. That is all there is to it, they are saying.

Cry me a river. Tears course down my cheeks. Great sobs rage from my body. The arrogance of the beauty of youth. I stagger forward. I take him by surprise. I roll him so that he is now face down on the bed. He struggles, but even in my drunken stupor I am too strong for him. I dig my knee into his shoulders. He wriggles his hips and waist and flails his legs, but he is going nowhere. Not until I say so.

I tug at the waist of his khaki shorts. He resists but I inch them down over the mounds of his buttocks. His cheeks are bare. I see bruises from the paddling are still to heal completely. I wish I had a paddle. I don’t, so I smack the palm of my hand across his buttocks.

“Gerroff! Leave me alone!” he yells as I pound away at his backside. The flesh feels soft and warm. Soon my palm begins to tingle. It is probably hurting more than John’s rear end. I don’t care. I hate him so much. If I had a knife I would probably plunge it into his heart.

My cock is rock hard. My heart races. My temples throb. I loosen my trousers and find my dick. I climb on his back. John squeals with terror.

“Headmaster, headmaster!” Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, stands in the doorway, ashen-faced. I climb from the bed and without fastening my trousers, I push past him and stagger down the corridor, leaving John convulsing on the bed.

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 8. The student master

used drawing quelch (7)

For all the previous episodes of The Tyrant Teacher, click here

Steve May slowly closed the door to the study behind him.

He stood blinking the tears. Tears of humiliation; tears of pain. His backside throbbed like crazy. A minute or two earlier it had been intense agony, but it was easing a little. It would be several hours before the pain went completely.

How he hated that school. He would gladly see it burn to the ground. All of it and the schoolmasters with it.

Slowly, he eased his way down the passageway. Every step he took was agony as the elastic at the bottom of his underpants cut into his blistered bottom. He limped downstairs and through the lower school passageways, hands gingerly touching his buttocks. He couldn’t help it; he desperately wanted to rub his scorching bottom. His eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for the bogs and a cubicle in which to hide for a few minutes, until he’d regained some composure.

He cried a bit more; his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.

That night, alone in his horrible furnished room, Steve wept into his pillow and nursed his scarred buttocks. He still had weeks to go until he would be allowed to leave St Septimius. How would he survive?

 

Four weeks earlier

 

Steve May’s progress was painstaking. He crossed the ivy-covered quadrangle, passed the mullioned-windows of the library and entered the clock tower. He had never been in such a place before. What kind of school was this?

At a snail’s pace, he climbed the stairs in search of Mr Fortescue’s study. “Study:” even the words they used here intimidated him. Study: what was wrong with office? That was a perfectly good word. Steve was in search of Mr Fortescue, the headmaster, the man who was to be his mentor for the next eight weeks, while he undertook his teaching practice.

He was not looking forward to this. Now, he had to prove that he really had the makings of a schoolteacher. Eight weeks was all the time he had. If he failed that was the end for him. But success meant qualification and “Steve May” would become “Mr May,” a junior teacher.

The school porter had told him the study was on the first floor. He found that easily enough and was scrutinising the nameplates on the oak-panelled doors when he stopped in his tracks. Beyond the door of the study at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? His naturally pale face coloured up with embarrassment. He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Steve, emerged. Steve’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to drop his trousers and bend over a chair to allow Fortescue to swipe his cane across his stretched white underpants and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

The sense of intimidation Steve already felt increased as he formed a slack fist and ever so lightly tapped on the study door. He half hoped Dr Fortescue would not hear the knock so Steve could withdraw and leave the school forever. He would tell his tutors at the teacher training institution that nobody had been expecting him at the school.

“Come in.” Rats! He had heard. There was no going back now for Steve May. He had arrived at St. Septimius and he would have to survive all that the school threw at him in the next two months.

He turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he created between door and door jam.

Steve looked around the study. It was dominated by a huge desk, topped with green leather. Behind it was a window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit, fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there

Standing against the wall was a wooden chair with a high back over which, Steve would one day discover, boys had to drape themselves when being caned. Behind this was a comfortable seating area where presumably Dr Fortescue held informal meetings. Steve’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“You must be May.” Dr Fortescue gave him a frosty glare making Steve feel like a naughty twelve-year-old schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye, he could see that resentful schoolboy stretched across the desk, bottom high. When Fortescue beckoned him with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk Steve was certain he was in for similar treatment.

He shuffled forward, eyes lowered. Steve had been overwhelmed from the moment he walked through the gates of St. Septimius. He had never seen such a place. He had attended a modest inner-city secondary modern school made of breeze-blocks and glass, far removed from the ancient buildings at St. SIGS.

Dr Fortescue’s glare fixed on Steve who intuitively stared down at his mud splattered shoes, terrified he might make eye contact with the headmaster. He shuffled from one foot to another in embarrassment.

Dr Fortescue had a red face with a heavy frown on his brow and his thin lips were set tightly. None of the boys were sure of his age; he probably looked older than he actually was. He was an intimidating man, as strong as an ox.

Fortescue did not like what he saw. Who was this pale-skinned scrawny creature dressed in a cheap suit from the Co-op, who stared at the carpet too petrified to even look at him? Who on earth thought he could become a schoolmaster? If he wore one of St Septimius blue-and-white blazers he might be mistaken for a sixth-former. Heavens! Put him in short trousers and he could pass as fifteen.

“So, you are May.”

Steve blushed scarlet. Was he expected to answer? He wasn’t at all certain.

“Well, answer me boy!” Already Dr Fortescue was treating his new “colleague” as if he were a disobedient pupil.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

Fortescue’s already ruddy complexion turned puce with rage. That lower-class accent! Where was this urchin from? Some industrial town in the Midlands: Wolverhampton? Walsall? How could he be expected to teach English, when he couldn’t even speak the language correctly?

He turned his back on Steve and stared out of the window. What was the world coming to? He blamed the new Socialist government. They wanted to abolish schools like St Septimius. Jealousy. Class envy, that’s what it was. The school had been forced to take scholarship boys from the working classes and now it was expected to take on this wretch as a student master. What next: admit West Indians? Independent schools were supposed to “give something back,” the Socialist, no crypto-Communist, Minister of Education had said. “Give something back”: what the hell did that mean?

Fortescue stared through the window. A bell rang in the distance and hundreds of schoolboys in St Septimius colours emerged from classrooms. Bloody Socialists, he thought, they want everybody to be the same.

He turned to May. “Get out of my sight and never come back,” is what he wanted to say. But he had been given his instructions by the school governors. He knew he had to deal with this person and his strangled vowels.

So, instead of throwing the tyke out on his ear, he did the next best thing. He sent him over to see Carruthers, the most junior of the English masters. Let him wet nurse the baby and he sincerely hoped he never had the displeasure to encounter this wretch and his shiny suit ever again.

@

Steve had been at the school for more than two weeks and was on the edge of despair. Carruthers was scarcely older than Steve himself and had not taken well to his task as babysitter. It had brought out his worst bullying tendencies: Carruthers was on the lowest rung of school-mastering and resented it; now, in Steve he had someone who was even lower down the pecking order.

He took an instant dislike to Steve from the moment he opened his mouth. He didn’t care that the new man was a considerable expert on the Romantic poets and Shakespeare’s tragedies: all he heard were his Black Country “strangled vowels.”

Carruthers would have left Steve to fend for himself if he hadn’t been given instructions by Dr Fortescue to “look after” him. Carruthers knew from painful experience that he must obey his headmaster at all times. Failure would mean a second humiliating visit to Fortescue’s study and Carruthers intended to avoid that at all costs.

Steve was assigned Sixth Form English classes, on the expectation that boys were older and responsible and would not make trouble for him. Alas, for poor Steve, that wasn’t to be. The boys might only eighteen year olds, but they were already well versed in snobbery; they knew their own sense of superiority and Mr May was most assuredly not of their class.

The boys went through the formalities: they stood, as they would for any master, when he entered the schoolroom and they called him “Sir”, but they had no respect for him at all and rather resented that he had been foisted upon them.

They called him the Queen of the May behind his back and made assertions that he was “queer,” even though they didn’t quite know what that meant. A particularly obnoxious boy called Jenkins led the charge. Jenkins was one of those boys who thought he was the class clown, and makes himself popular by always making his fellows laugh, but is in fact a bully. He and another boy had made up a poem about Steve that concentrated on the master’s assumed sexual behaviour.

Steve knew none of this but he did know that he had no rapport with his pupils and every class with them had become an ordeal for him.

Things were about to get even more humiliating. Every time he entered the schoolroom he felt he had been transported back two or three decades. The schoolroom consisted of about twenty wooden desks connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

A master would stand at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books.

The boys hated Mr May and wanted to make as much trouble for him as possible. Jenkins had made a plan. Each boy would make a paper dart and at a given signal as Steve chalked on the board they would simultaneously bombard him. It worked perfectly – at first.

Each boy surreptitiously tore a page from his exercise book and whenever Mr May turned his back, they would stealthily fold their paper until they had fashioned a serviceable paper airplane.

Then as Mr May was chalking a particularly difficult explanation on the board, Jenkins silently gave the command and a veritable air force of paper flew at the trainee schoolmaster. Some darts hit him about the body (at least one caught him on the back of the neck) while others made crash landings all around his feet.

“What? What? What is going on?” Steve spluttered.

Then, the schoolroom door flew open and Dr Fortescue stormed in. What back luck for the boys that he had been passing the classroom at the very moment the air force took flight and he had seen enough to know the boys were attacking the schoolmaster.

He might not have liked nor respected May, but Dr Fortescue knew it was his own duty to protect him and the dignity of all the schoolmasters at St Septimius from the savagery of their pupils.

The boys stood to attention as Dr Fortescue strode into the room, his face was puce in colour and he was sweating profusely. He seemed to be losing a struggle to retain his temper. The boys were fortunate he was not carrying a cane at the time (he almost always did when he patrolled the school corridors) for he might just have thrashed every backside in the classroom.

“This is disgusting behaviour,” he thundered. The silence from the boys was deafening, hardly one of them dared to breathe. All Steve could hear was the thump, thump, thump of his own heart bursting to get out of his chest. He was so miserable; made so by the boys’ air attack on him and compounded by his headmaster witnessing his incompetence in the schoolroom. He was close to tears as Dr Fortescue glared around the room, catching the eye of every single boy as he roared his disapproval.

“You will all return here at four o’clock this afternoon for detention.” With that he turned on his heels and burst through the door into the corridor, leaving a classroom full of shocked sixth-formers and one deeply humiliated trainee schoolmaster.

@

Shortly after four o’clock the boys assembled in the schoolroom for their detention. Some might have felt resentful since all the form was being punished for the misbehaviour of a few boys, but they did not show it. Schoolboys have an acute sense of injustice, but on this day they had a sense of solidarity that would made a trade union leader envious. They were united in their disdain for Mr May; if he could keep control of a class they wouldn’t be here now.

Dr Fortescue entered; glared at the class and pronounced. “You will tear a page out of your exercise book and each boy will write a two-page letter of apology to Mr May. I will read your missives and if your apology is not to my satisfaction, I will apply my cane to the seat of your trousers.”

With that he strutted from the room, in search of tea.

The boys started on the task. Two pages? How was a fellow expected to make a letter of apology run for two pages? What was there to say except: “I’m sorry.”

Many of the boys stared into space, chewing the end of their pens, hoping for inspiration. Others whispered to their neighbours as if that might stimulate thought.

Then Jenkins, the class joker, piped up. “Dear Mr May. I am sorry that you are a lousy schoolmaster.”

He was encouraged by the laughter this received.

“I am sorry that you are a tyke, who was born in Wolverhampton,” this said in a mock Black Country accent. The boys were appreciating the joke.

“Dear Mr May, I am sorry you are a homo.” The class was silent. Faces reddened. Jenkins had not expected this. All the boys thought May was queer, that’s why they nicknamed him Queen of the May.

“Jenkins!” Dr Fortescue had returned to the schoolroom, a cup of tea in one hand and his favourite cane in the other.

“Stand up boy!” Fortescue’s face had turned the colour of red wine. Boys of Dr Fortescue’s acquaintance knew this was a dangerous sign. Jenkins stumbled to his feet. Just as blood was rushing to the headmaster’s face, it was draining from Jenkins.

“What is the meaning of this!” Fortescue thundered, but he clearly did not expect an answer.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

Every boy in the room knew what was to happen next. Dr Fortescue’s punishments were always given in front of the class; the unfortunate boy would be called out to the front and given a real whacking. Once it was over the boy would be sent hobbling to his seat, finding it extremely difficult to let go of his stinging cheeks. Without fail he would at least have moist eyes; most would be in tears, even openly crying as they tried to sit down. Dr Fortescue would stand in front of the class with a satisfied smirk on his face watching and still wielding the cane. He would place the weapon back on the desk, in plain view, as a warning to everyone else, should they misbehave.

“Right Jenkins! Bend over the front desk backside facing the class.”

Reluctantly, the eighteen-year-old walked to the desk and bent over and waited for Dr Fortescue to begin. He sensed his grey trousers being tightened as the headmaster ensured they would offer the least protection to his bottom as possible.

Jenkins was no longer the class clown, he was a fool bent over with a class of sixth-formers staring intently at his bottom. The classroom was tense as they all waited for the caning to begin. Jenkins felt the cane tapping his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he heard a swish and his bottom was on fire.

Before he could recover the second stroke had landed, this took his breath away and by the third it was all he could do not to yell as the agony was so intense.

The fourth landed right at the bottom of his cheeks and Jenkins gulped tears. As the final two strokes fell in the same area he could no longer keep quiet and screamed out in pain, broken and humiliated in front of his classmates.

Dr Fortescue liked to examine a boy immediately he had caned him and ordered Jenkins to rise from the desk at once. As tears streamed down the teenager’s face, Dr Fortescue laid into him verbally. “Boy, I have gone easy on you this time, if I catch you again abusing Mr May your trousers and underpants will come down and Six will become Twelve. Is that understood?”

It was, but Jenkins did not have sufficient control of himself to say so.

“Back to your desk and complete your letter of apology.”

Then turning back to the class, Dr Fortescue added, “I shall return in twenty minutes’ time and I expect each one of you to have completed the letter of apology. Any boy who has not done so will get the same as Jenkins.”

With that he left the classroom to the sound of his own footsteps. For the next twenty minutes the classroom was in silence except for the gentle sobbing of one eighteen-year-old boy.

@

He had only been at St Septimius a short time but nothing could surprise Steve about the school. Dr Fortescue, his headmaster, expected him to bend over and offer up his arse for his cane, just as if he were one of his fourth-form pupils.

To Dr Fortescue it seemed the most natural thing in the world; he was in charge and he would brook no nonsense from this trainee schoolmaster, who had failed in all his duties in the schoolroom. He was utterly incompetent and if he expected a good report for his training officer at the end of his placement he had better get his backside in the air fast.

Dr Fortescue didn’t say any of this out loud, of course, but Steve knew that was what he meant. The only chance he had (and it might only be a slim chance) of becoming a junior schoolmaster was to let this bullying headmaster have his way.

Dr Fortescue opened one of the desk drawers and picked out a small bunch of keys which he carried across to a tall cupboard on the far side of the room. The cupboard was like a wardrobe with a metal rail running from side to side and there was a black schoolmaster’s cloak and an overcoat hanging from it on coat hangers. Then to one side, Steve saw several canes also suspended from this metal rail. They seemed to vary in length by only a few inches and one or two were thicker than the others.

“Very well, go to the cupboard and choose a cane and bring it to me.”

Slowly, Steve went over to the cupboard and looked at the array of canes inside. He looked back at Dr Fortescue questioningly. “The one you think you deserve.” he repeated. Finally, Steve took a breath and chose the thickest one, which was second longest. He held it almost reverentially as he passed it to his master. It was heavier than he thought, but easy to hold. Despite its thickness, it was very pliable.

Fortescue moved a high-backed chair from the corner of the room and set it down in front of his desk.

“Stand there.” It was a clear command as Dr Fortescue pointed to a spot on the rug. Steve shuffled his feet, reluctant to move, but deep down he knew he had no choice. For the sake of his future he had to be completely subservient to Dr Fortescue and anything the headmaster demanded of him he had to deliver.

“Trousers and underpants down.” Another cool command, delivered as if the instruction was the most natural thing in the world: a twenty-two-year-old trainee school teacher required to strip half naked to allow a man more than twice his age to flog his buttocks with a whippy rod.

Hesitatingly, Steve started to undo the belt of his trousers and then his trouser buttons. He half pushed and half pulled his suit trousers down just below his bottom.

“That’s no good boy. I want them down round your ankles.”

Steve blushed and pushed his trousers right down. He then seemed to freeze.

“Now your underpants,” Dr Fortescue gently reminded him. “Right down please.”

Steve summoned up the courage, grasped the waistband of his pants and in one slow, but steady movement, drew them down to meet his trousers. He had a long-tailed shirt so that action did not reveal his buttocks, other than a brief glimpse of the very lowest part.

“Please pull your shirt up so that your bottom is fully exposed.”

Steve obeyed pulling his shirt up and gathering it at the front. His bottom was round and pert.

“Bend over the chair boy,” he ordered, rattling through his rules for caning. “Head right down, I want you tight, bottom out more, legs slightly apart, hold the chair seat tightly. And stay there. If you move out of position I shall give you extra strokes.”

Steve bent with his legs stretched out at forty-five degrees behind him. The seat of the chair was cold to his hands. He could feel the back of it sticking in to his stomach. He felt very frightened.  He could hear a cane being swished. Then footsteps moving towards him. He felt intense embarrassment. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

With a growl, Fortescue swiped the rod through the air and landed it with a heavy thwack across Steve’s bottom, pacing each stroke for maximum effect, giving him the full length of the cane and making sure that twelve strokes covered the whole of his bottom.

“Ow! Ow!” shrieked Steve, moving his bottom from side to side over the back of the chair as he tried to alleviate the sting, but the stick whipped and cracked to Dr Fortescue’s delight, dancing on his bare cheeks and painting pink stripes. His buttocks rocked from side to side as Steve wiggled his hips frantically, attempting to dissipate the pain.

The trainee teacher begged the headmaster for mercy as Dr Fortescue lashed his cane into his tight buttocks. His behind was throbbing with the pain of twelve strokes of the cane, but Fortescue wasn’t satisfied.

Suddenly, Fortescue stopped swiping his cane and began dementedly slapping his hard, rough hand into Steve’s welted buttocks. A rapid succession of sharp whacks covered almost every part of young Steve’s bare backside and upper thighs, leaving him panting noisily for breath and gulping back a flood of cries. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was heavy, fast, gasping. His face and neck were red and strained and his mouth agape.

Dr Fortescue’s breathing was heavy, excited, uncontrolled. Then he stopped spanking Steve’s red-raw buttocks.

Steve could not be sure his punishment was at an end as he assumed Dr Fortescue would instruct him to stand when he was finished. When no instruction came, the twenty-two-year-old drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly and tentatively raised his head up just ten or twelve inches.

When he was not stopped, he took another deep breath and stood half upright, his hands gripping the top of the chair. Finally, he stood up on tiptoe and began gently exploring the damage caused to his bottom, trying to disperse the sting. Several tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Dr Fortescue was motionless, Steve could not be sure, but the headmaster appeared to be in some kind of trance.

With a sharp intake of breath, Steve bent down and slowly hunted through the material that lay around his ankles as he sought the waistband of his pants. With a slight groan as he experienced once more the soreness of his bottom, he eased them up his legs. Equally as slowly he pulled up his trousers.

Dr Fortescue was battling to regain his composure, but failing. Steve started to run on the spot and jump up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV are always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. In Steve’s case, it didn’t seem to work.

Seemingly lacking the power of speech, Dr Fortescue pointed to the door and whispered, “You had better go.”

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The pillow fight

z used drawing pyjamas pillow fight Mag (1)

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sat slumped in the comfortable leather armchair in his study, trying to read the evening newspaper. It was deuced hard work. The noise coming from the senior boys’ dormitory on the landing above was disturbing his concentration.

Typical first night of term, the doctor mused. Let them get on with it. It was still early, they would eventually run out of steam and settle down to sleep.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood turned the pages of his newspaper. The American election was in full swing. Who really cared? he sighed.

Judging by the way the floorboards were shaking some kind of fight was in progress. With pillows, no doubt, the housemaster smiled. Boys will be boys. What tales they would have to tell, when they left the school. Thump! Something heavy crashing to the floor made the ceiling shake. Oh dear, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned. If it went on like this much longer, he would be forced to investigate.

A piercing screech rent the air. It sounded like a boy was being murdered. The housemaster folded his newspaper carefully and placed it on a nearby table. He listened intently. Silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed to be over.

Alas, no. Another equally spine-chilling shriek echoed across his study, followed by wild cheering. What on earth were they up to? Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood was very used to having boisterous schoolboys in the house, but this was too much.

Another scream. Foot stomping. The light fitting on the ceiling swayed. “Oh, this is really the limit,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned inwardly. “If they persisted in behaving like junior boys, they should not be surprised to be treated that way.”

He hauled himself from his chair and stretched. His academic gown hung from a nearby umbrella stand. Wearily, he climbed into it. He placed his mortar-board cap on his head, fixing it so the tassel fell in just the right place. He glanced in the mirror; he rather liked his look.

Then, he took four steps across the study and stopped in front of a tall, thin cupboard. The door was closed but not locked. It opened with a flick of the wrist. Inside were several whippy rattan canes, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Any one of them could in the right hands deliver a stinging beating, he thought, but these were senior boys, they deserved something special.

He reached in and took hold of a dark-yellow curved-handled cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed it between his hands. He had used this particular rod many times in the past. He could attest to its effectiveness, as could the dozens of boys he had thrashed in the past three months alone. The housemaster was well-known, and justifiably proud, of his reputation among the fellows for his expertise.

He swished the cane a few times, delighting in the swooshing sound it made as it travelled through the air. Satisfied with the rod’s competence to deliver, he tucked it under his arm and exited his study.

There was no great distance between the study and the senior boys’ dormitory. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood walked maybe ten yards down the passageway before ascending one flight of stairs to the landing above. The dormitory was almost exactly above the study. The housemaster made stately progress. He knew he should not be in a great hurry. There was a certain understanding in such matters. Boys who were ragging would have one of their own on sentry duty to call “cave” on the approach of a master. That would give the chaps a chance to affect an air of total innocence when the beak arrived.

But, there was no lookout and no abatement in the noise. Well, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood concluded, fingering the end of his cane, they only had themselves to blame. He waited outside the dormitory door, listening to the mayhem from within. He counted to ten in his head, gripped the handle and dramatically flew open the door.

There was chaos. A dozen senior boys, all dressed in identical red-and-white-striped pyjamas, attacked one another with pillows. There appeared to be no sides. It was a free-for-all. Everyone was fair game.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood made an imposing figure, framed in the doorway. He was about six-feet-four-inches tall and built like a rugby prop forward, although he had never played the game. He wrapped his gown around his body and glared into the room. He looked like a hawk about to take flight. Impressive indeed. But, not one boy present took notice of him, too intent were they on their own private battles.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sucked in a lung-full of air. “Boys!” he boomed. “Desist this instance.” A few paused their combat; many did not.

“I said, desist!” he roared.

Sheepishly, all in the room turned to face their housemaster. One or two hurriedly dropped pillows, staring at them as if they had never seen the things before, as they fell on beds.

“Such disgraceful behaviour,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood spoke in a natural voice. He had the complete attention of every boy in the room. “What were you thinking?” He turned to the boy nearest to him, “Carruthers?” and when he received no reply, he tried another senior, “Carstairs?”

The silence of the replies irritated him. “Carruthers, you are the dormitory monitor, explain to me what is going on.”

Carruthers blushed. Suddenly, he had an intense interest in the bare floorboards beneath his feet, but he did not reply. Carstairs could not stop looking at the fierce-looking cane tucked under the housemaster’s arm.

“Would some boy explain what is going on,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood’s beaky stare intimidated one boy after the other. “Dunno, Sir,” said one. “Sorry, Sir,”” another ventured.

“Sorry, yes you will be sorry,” the housemaster barked, “All of you.”

A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as slowly and deliberately Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He paused for dramatic effect, then flexed it between his hands until it made a perfect arc. Then, he swished it in the direction of the far wall. “Line up there all of you. Face me. Hands on head.”

Sorrowfully, the seniors shuffled across the dormitory. Not a sound could be heard, not even the thumping of the boys’ hearts. Corporal punishment was imminent. Soon, each stood as instructed, hands on head. Some tried to stand to attention as if on a military parade ground; most slouched, their backs arched and knees bent.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood glared at each boy in turn. He said nothing, his face said it all. He had practiced his intimating stare over many years. No boy dared meet his gaze. Some looked blankly into the distance, others at their bare feet. The housemaster swished his cane. All the boys would be beaten. Hard. They would expect, no demand, nothing less. Rules had been clearly expressed. Lights out and silence at nine-thirty. Just as clearly, rules had been disobeyed. There was a certain etiquette in such things. Matters had to take their course.

“I shall not tolerate such behaviour, and from senior men too,” he intoned. “You will each be beaten on the bared buttocks.” The housemaster delighted at his reception. Faces flushed as red as buttocks soon would be. He tapped the tip of his cane against a wrought-iron bedstead and pressed against it so his thick, dense cane curved.

“Step forward Carruthers. You are dormitory captain, it is your duty to maintain order,” he growled. “And discipline.” He rolled the word “discipline” around his mouth. The wretched senior before him would not – could not – look his master in the eye. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled.

“Carruthers, you will take Six; you other boys will get three,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed the cane once more. “Lower your pyjama bottoms and bend over the bed.” It was a clear command, softly spoken. It was an instruction from a housemaster, no boy at the school would dare disobey.

Carruthers stepped forward; his fingers fumbled at the drawstring of his pyjamas, but soon the red-and-white-striped bottoms slithered down his thighs before snagging at the knees. He parted them slightly and they continued the journey to his feet. The senior hesitated, unsure if he should step out of the trousers bunched at his feet and present himself totally naked from the waist down. When no further instruction was forthcoming from the housemaster, he elected to leave them in place and bend forward.

The bedstead was cold and hard. It stuck into his stomach and hurt. He would have much preferred if the housemaster had placed a pillow for him, but, he knew, the good doctor had no concern that the boys he was about to punish should be comfortable. That was hardly the point of the exercise.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood stretched forward and took the tail of the pyjama jacket and with some ceremony folded it once, and then twice, up Carruthers’ back, exposing several inches of flesh covered in dark brown hair. He stood back to take his aim. He pressed the cane into Carruthers’ naked buttocks. There was a lot of “give”. The housemaster beat many boys and most had well upholstered bottoms. He could not recall the last time he had been presented with a pair of taut, pert buttocks.

He “sawed” the cane across the centre of the senior’s backside, enjoying how it twitched with anticipation. The housemaster made two practice swipes, raised the cane high and swiped it with terrific force into the naked flesh. The buttocks wobbled with the impact, a dark pink line appeared, and Carruthers threw back his head and silently gulped in draughts of air.

Unseen by the housemaster other boys craned their necks forward, lest they should miss any of the excitement. One boy, who had never been beaten, nor witnessed such a thing, felt his cock stiffen. He wondered if he dared remove his hands from his head to cover the obvious erection that was growing.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood took his aim once more. Carruthers’ body stiffened. The stroke made him tingle with agony from head to foot. His eyes shone, and his face went white, but he uttered no cry. He had been thrashed before, often. He knew the form; no matter how much a master hurt you, you must never show it. Four more cuts hammered into his naked haunches, each as hard and stinging as the first, but not a sound escaped his lips. But for the drawn, strained look about his lips, and the blaze in his eyes, he might have been a statuesque bust when he rose and joined his fellows, hands on head.

“Carstairs, you’re next. Step forward boy.” Carstairs was a little taller than Carruthers, but no less padded. Nonchalantly, he let his pyjama bottoms fall. He stood facing his tormentor affording the housemaster a perfect view of his flaccid cock and ball sack. It was, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood observed silently, quiet the longest member he had seen in a considerable time.

Without fuss, Carstairs lifted his jacket to his chest exposing an almost hairless stomach. He paused to a silent count of three and satisfied that his fellow miscreants had admired his manhood, he dived across the bedstead. He spread his arms wide and opened his legs. His cock and balls dangled provocatively. But, the housemaster would not be distracted.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Three deep welts were already forming as Carstairs hobbled back in line. The pain was intense. It had only been three cuts, but the housemaster was a recognised expert with the cane. It had been “three” like the senior had seldom received before.

“Next boy,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slashed his cane through the air. He was in his stride now.

So, it was that twelve boys settled down to sleep, each nursing deep cuts on their backsides. No words were exchanged until First Bell next morning. Then, each would display his trophy stripes. By then, deep pink would be turning to mauve. They would change to many colours of the rainbow before finally disappearing several days later.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood returned to his study. He replaced the cane in the tall, thin cupboard and opened his cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses of gin. Soon, the study door burst open. His visitor owned the establishment; he was not one to knock on doors.

“How did it go?” he inquired eagerly before gulping his drink.

“Very well. Very well indeed. I think they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood nodded approvingly. “It should be one of our best weekends ever.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

A pair of shorts

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

z used drawing athlete

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

I can remember it as if it were yesterday: 1985. I was eighteen years old. A senior sixth-former at St. Jack’s Grammar. A prefect, no less. He was Mr. Braithwaite, head of the History Department. A lay priest as well. And, Head of Discipline for the entire school.

I don’t suppose we thought much of it at the time. School was school. Nobody was supposed to enjoy it. You went to classes, kept your mouth closed (unless you were asked a direct question by a master and then woe betide you if you didn’t know the answer.) You did as you were told. And if you didn’t you got a sore arse. That just about sums up my schooldays.

Even in the sixth form. Even if you were a prefect.

Braithwaite had a collection of torture instruments. I don’t know how many whippy crook-handled canes he had. Long ones; short ones. Thick ones; thin ones. A rattan cane for every occasion. Every occasion, except for when he decided to use the leather taws. Two-tailed. Three-tailed, he had plenty of those too. Nearly two feet of heavy leather; delivered with vigour across the palm of the hands. Scorching! He always asked which hand you wrote with. Then he’d whip the other one until it was red raw.

A gym slipper – the old-fashioned plimsoll with springy rubber soles, not the trainers we have today. Sized eleven. Big. Hard. It covered the whole of one buttock cheek. Whap! Ouch! The pain was intense. Even across trousers and pants. Think how bad it was with only thin cotton gym shorts to protect you.

“Bend over. Touch your toes.” I wonder how many times Mr. Braithwaite said that in all the years he was at the school. Mister Braithwaite. Even after so long, I still can’t help thinking of him as Mister Braithwaite.

He had a special room that he used for punishment sessions. Each lunchtime and often at four-fifteen after school had ended for the day there would be two or three boys lined up outside. Trembling. Waiting for the call, “Enter.” It didn’t matter how many visits a boy made to Mr. Braithwaite, he could never get used to it. The fear. What would Mr. Braithwaite do to you today? What implement would he use? How many strokes? Dear God! Trousers up or trousers down?

Or, as with me: in your PE kit. This one time. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Braithwaite had dealt with me, and even though there were only six weeks to go before I left school forever, it wasn’t the last. But never before like this.

I hated Wednesday afternoons. Compulsory sports. Even for the sixth-formers. I was bookish, a nerd if you like, I would have been very happy to spend the afternoons in the library. Reading. Swotting up for my forthcoming English Literature exam. Doing something useful.

Instead, Trubshaw the PE master, sent us on a road run. The lazy good-for-nothing couldn’t even be bothered to organise some actual games. So, a couple of dozen eighteen year olds set off on a three-mile run around town. Trebilcock and Howerstone were the only ones to take it seriously. The rest of us ran for a while, jogged for a bit more and walked the rest. Who cared?

“Don’t care was made to care.” There’s some nursery saying like that isn’t there? I’ll Google it later to find out. Nobody had told us we were being timed. “Be back at school by three-fifty-five or you’ll cop it.” That’s what bone-idle Trubshaw should have told us. He should have; but he couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t have long to tell this story, so I’ll cut to the chase. Eight of us. Eight! One in three of the group ended up in a line outside the punishment room. With me at its head. When the punishment queue is in alphabetical order it doesn’t pay to have a name like Albertson.

Braithwaite was a rangy, thin-haired man with a buzzard’s-beak nose. He must have been still quite young at the time. Even today, after so many years, I remember those steely-blue eyes. Cold as ice. His nostrils seemed to flare when he prepared to deliver a beating.

Me? I was eighteen years old and despite my distain for physical activity, I was in pretty good shape. The beer belly and the jowls arrived during my thirties. I had a twenty-seven-inch waist and a thirty-three-inch chest. Why do I remember that?

I expected a caning. Six very hard slashes across the seat of my PE shorts. They were thin cotton and because I was growing out of them, they were a bit tight across the buttocks. We weren’t allowed to wear pants under our shorts, so six-of-the-best would take my arse off. I knew that and resolved to take my caning with fortitude. I suppose by this time in my school career I had developed a very high pain threshold.

I stood there waiting. In my white shorts and white sleeveless singlet. It was late spring or early summer, but I still shivered. The punishment room was dark and dank. There was only one small opaque window. It didn’t let much light in.

Mr. Braithwaite admonished me. His tone was imperious. You would have thought I had been caught robbing the school safe, not dawdling on a town run. He didn’t say much. He assumed, as he always did, that he was in the right. The mournful schoolboy before him was never allowed to speak in mitigation.

Then, it happened. It was so unexpected it left me speechless. Rooted to the spot.

Mr. Braithwaite opened a cupboard door and took out his size-eleven plimsoll. It was dirty white. Us boys would never have gotten away wearing these for gym class. Three whacks, touching toes, crash, crash, crash. That was the penalty for wearing unclean PE kit. Mr. Braithwaite flexed the plimsoll between both hands. I could see it was a mighty springy shoe. The sole was worn to a sheen. It had seen a lot of action and probably not all of it on the running track.

I stood transfixed as Mr. Braithwaite gripped the back of an upright wooden chair and placed it in the very centre of the room. He sat down and spread his legs wide. Then he growled at me. “Albertson, take down your shorts and bend over my knee.”

My jaw probably quite literally dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Shorts down? Bend over his knee?

I blabbered. “B… b… b…”  I wanted to say but I was wearing no pants. If I took my shorts down I would be bare arsed. Hadn’t he realized that? Surely, once he knew that he would change his mind and give me a whacking with the plimsoll on my shorts.

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee, or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

The headmaster. That was no option. I’d probably get a heck of a caning from the Beak. Then, because I refused to accept punishment, he would suspend me from school. With exams coming up I couldn’t afford to miss classes. I had ambitions. I needed those A-levels.

I stared down at Mr. Braithwaite’s legs. He had parted them so far, I had a perfect view of his crotch, encased in the cotton of his trousers. I didn’t look at his cock, I concentrated on his thighs that presented an ideal platform for me to bend over and present my bottom for punishment.

But, first I had to remove my shorts. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I had been naked in public many times before. We boys were not shy in the showers after games. Even now, I can recall the size of Thompson’s donger.

But, I had never before offered up my bared buttocks for inspection at such close quarters. Bending over to accept a caning was an act of submission; every schoolboy and schoolmaster knew that. But, the cane was delivered at arm’s length and across a clothed bottom. There was distance between the punisher and the punished. There was no intimacy involved. And none was intended. It was a business process. Something that had to be got through. Then everybody could move on with their lives.

A bare-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was something altogether different. It was something that a father might administer to a deserving son. It was intimate. It was meant to be. The father was saying, “I am doing this because I love you.”

I just knew I had to let him do it to me. I had no choice. He was the master. I was the schoolboy. Eighteen years old, maybe, but a schoolboy nonetheless.

“Quickly,” Mr. Braithwaite was anxious to get going. After all, I was only the first in a long line of sixth-formers he wanted to spank bare-bottomed that afternoon.

What happened next is as clear as a bell in my memory. I pulled down my shorts and placed myself over his knees. It was memorable as it was the first and last time I was spanked in this way. I remember I fitted quite snugly. My arms were stretched ahead of me and the palms of my hands rested comfortably against the vinyl floor covering. My head was so low I could see under the chair behind me. My white cotton shorts were bunched at my feet. My toes hardly brushed the floor.

My own cock was pressed deeply into Mr. Braithwaite’s body. I suppose I must have been quite a weight against him. Even so he pressed his left hand down hard across my shoulders, pinning me against his crotch. My buttocks must have been high above his right thigh. This would have given him a terrific view of my crack and hole.

My bum cheeks twitched in anticipation. How much would the plimsoll hurt against my bare flesh? I had been spanked previously with a similar slipper across the shorts and that had hurt like hell.

I would have to wait before I found out. Mr. Braithwaite wasn’t quite ready. I felt his hand – and it was surprisingly soft – caress my cheeks. With circular motions, he gently followed the contours of my right globe from the top near the spine, across the mound and into the under-curves. Then he travelled further south down my thigh and almost to my knee. Then he did it all over again on my left side.

Then, he spanked me. With his hand. Whack-whack-whack. He kept up quite a rhythm. First my right cheek, then my left. I gasped. It didn’t hurt, but I was taken by surprise. I had expected the searing pain as the springy rubber-soled plimsoll struck home. Instead, he was giving me love-taps.

This went on for some time. I lay face down, staring at the vinyl floor. How absurd that I still remember that a ball of fluff breezed past my nose. Mr. Braithwaite stopped his spanking. I couldn’t see for myself, but by this time my bottom would have been a rosy-pink colour.

I felt a movement in his body. He gripped hold of the slipper and brought it crashing down across the very centre of my left cheek, then the right. A dozen slaps fell rapidly, like machinegun fire. Bang. Bang. Bang.

That hurt all right. My legs kicked out behind me and my body twisted and turned across Mr. Braithwaite’s lap. More spanks rained down. The pain intensified. I had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment many times before. Mr. Braithwaite was that kind of man. It was that kind of school. But, always I had been able to control my body movements. But, not this time.

In the past I had always had something to hold on to. My shins, a chair, a desk. But, while draped over the lap of Mr. Braithwaite I just dangled: in midair. I tried to wriggle my arms to clutch hold of the chair leg, but it was out of my grasp. I swivelled my body a little and reached back behind me, intent on preventing further blows. Mr. Braithwaite was wise to this. He gripped my wrist tightly and pushed my arm up my back as far as my shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere; Mr. Braithwaite made certain of that.

I carried on kicking and squirming as wave after wave of slipper spanks toasted my backside. Sweat soaked my white PE vest. My breath came in short bursts. My heartrate must have been off the scale.

I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit into my tongue. On and on he went. My buttocks throbbed. I could feel bumps forming on my bum where the slipper repeatedly connected. I writhed and wriggled, like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Then, he stopped. I shot off his lap and pulled my shorts up. I was breathless, but Mr. Braithwaite also seemed unable to draw air into his lungs. I hopped from foot to foot, desperate to rub away at my raw buttocks; but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had really hurt me.

“Go,” he croaked. “Send in the next boy.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I flung open the door and rushed out. “You’re next,” I nodded at Collins, the next boy in the alphabet. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. I went to the changing rooms and inspected the damage. My bum was dark pink all over and there were small patches of purple in the very centre of the cheeks. On the outer edges were several imprints of the size-eleven slipper.

I got dressed and walked the mile or so to my home. I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs. I needed to walk off the pain. The throbbing had gone by the time I reached my house, but there were tender spots that reignited when I put pressure on them. The backs of my thighs were raw and it was pretty difficult to sit at the tea table in comfort.

Why am I telling you all this after more than thirty-five years? This morning as I travelled on the Tube from my home in Leytonstone to my work at Liverpool Street, I noticed a newspaper that had been discarded by a passenger. It was open and I saw the headline, “Sex pervert schoolmaster jailed.” One George Albert Higginbottom had been sent to prison for six years after being found guilty of “the inappropriate use of corporal punishment”. The newspaper said he had assaulted dozens of pupils that police knew of over a twenty-year period.

I read the story slowly, taking in every detail. Then, the train thundered into the station. I threw the newspaper to the ground and pushed my way through the crowds to the exit. Well, I thought to myself, I was glad I hadn’t been to that school.

 

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip

z used drawing pyjamas Hot (6)

For previous episodes of The Tyrant Headmaster, click here

Mr. Tyler, the geography master, did not like it. Not one little bit. He was nearing retirement age, he didn’t want change. What couldn’t things be left alone. He was too old to learn new tricks.

“What’s up old man,” Jessop of History handed Tyler a cup of tea. “Why so glum?”

Tyler took the cup and sipped. “Urghhh.” It was lukewarm and stewed. With an unsteady hand, he put it down on the table.

“Field trip,” he wailed, and as if that was sufficient explanation he turned the pages of the Daily Express in search of the gossip column.

“And …?” Jessop was always amused when old Tyler had a bee in his bonnet and he wasn’t about to let the chance of some fun escape.

“There was a time when geography was all about capital cities and Norwegian timber exports,” Tyler groaned. “Now, it’s rivers and mountains,” his face contorted into a sneer, “and glaciers.”

Jessop grinned. “Ah, the new examination curriculum. So, what is it a fieldtrip?”

“The bloody Lake District,” Tyler spat out the words. A trip with the Upper Sixth Geography set. What in the world, he wondered, could be worse than that?

“Never mind old chap,” Jessop chortled, “think of it as a holiday.”

Tyler’s already ruddy face turned puce. “Holiday!” he roared. “It’s the Lake District, it’ll be cold, grey,” and he shuddered, “very wet.”

The boys took the news more cheerfully. They would be at an educational field centre; a schoolroom in the mountains. Any distraction from their dreary, mundane lives would be mightily welcomed.

“Do you think there will be girls there?” Jay Collins feigned indifference. His lack of access to the fairer sex was getting him down. Did masturbation really make you go blind? He hoped not, otherwise he would soon be walking with a white stick.

“One track mind, Collins” Bob Lender grinned. “I’m sure the Windermere Field Centre is really a hot bed of vice. Mountain treks by day, orgies by night. Cherries will undoubtedly be popped.”

Collins blushed. He hated it when the boys teased him. Was he really the only virgin in the Sixth-Form?

If there were girls at the field centre the boys never found them. Proprieties of the day ensured that boys-only schools visited one week and the girls another.

“Hard luck Collins,” Lender chuckled when the awful truth was revealed. “It’s back to the four-fingered shuffle for you.”

“Hey guys, guys!” Bertie Price rushed into the dormitory, breathless. He had news to impart. He loved it when he knew things that the others didn’t. “Guess what?”

Six eighteen-year-old boys groaned. It was going to be like a number of the Twenty Questions wireless programme.

“Animal, vegetable or mineral?” one squeaked.

“Animate or inanimate object,” another groaned.

“Well, if you don’t want to know?” Price sniffed, “Then I shan’t tell you.”

“Get on with it Pricey, you know you’re dying to tell us,” Lender genuinely did not care to hear but he wanted the pest to shut up.

“St. Tom’s,” Price was breathless. “They’re here.”

There was no need for further explanation.  He meant that a group of sixth-formers from St. Tom’s, a school housed in the locality of St. Septimius, were also resident at the camp.

The rivalry between the boys of the two schools was intense. St. Tom’s was an elite “public” school for the sons of the higher classes. St. Septimius, as an “Independent Grammar” was considered to be one rung below in the pecking order. Such social class distinctions were important in England. The boys of St. Septimius thought themselves the equals of their rivals in every way, but the chaps at St. Tom’s begged to differ.

“Well boys,” Lender stretched, “We need to devise a plan.”

The field centre was not so large that the chaps from St. Tom’s did not discover the existence of their rivals. They set about drawing their own campaign of action. It would have to happen at night. When everyone was in bed, they would have the centre to themselves. St. Tom’s was a boarding school; the chaps were well versed in japing after lights-out. A dormitory raid! They would climb in through the window, take the oiks from St. Septimius by surprise, rough them up a little, and steal their pillows for souvenirs. That would show them who was the boss.

Mr. Tyler was settling down for the night when he heard the first mysterious sound. It was excited voices. Somebody was out of bed. He glanced at his alarm clock; it was nearly ten o’clock, fifteen minutes after lights-out. Could it be burglars? Surely not; the education centre was remote and the nearest village was five miles away. It wasn’t his business, he thought, the centre had its own manager and caretaker, let them sort it out. He wrapped his dressing gown around his body; the dreadful room they had given him was draughty and he hadn’t been properly warm from the moment he had arrived.

The chaps from St. Tom’s didn’t get it all their own way. Their plan had leaked (there’s always one sneak at school) and when they clambered through the window they were greeted by a welcoming party. It is an old prison trick to take a towel and tie it in knots to make an effective weapon. This is especially so when it is whirled around the head at speed before connecting with the body of its target.

Biff! Bang! Bosh!

“Ouch! Gerroff! Yaroo!” the cries from the chaps at St. Tom’s were pitiful.

“Get that one with the specs!” Bob Lender was having the time of his life. “Give him what for!”

A knotted towel sent the spectacles flying, an ugly red mark instantly spread across the young man’s face.

“Oooofff” Another chap got a whack right in the belly. He sank to his knees, gasping for air.

Mr. Tyler heard none of this; his boys’ dormitory was some distance away. His peace was disturbed by a furious hammering on his bedroom door.

“Mr. Tyler, Mr. Tyler, please open up.”

The geography master recognised the irritated voice of Mr. Boston, the manager.

“Coming man, coming. Stop that infernal knocking,” Mr. Tyler was equally irritated.

He opened the door to be confronted by a red-faced, portly man. He wore a long mackintosh over his pyjamas.

“There’s been a riot,” he spat the words. “Your boys ….” He waved his arms about frantically. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all the years I’ve been here.” He added hysterically, “It’s a disgrace.”

It took some time before Mr. Boston calmed sufficiently to tell the story. Mr. Tyler listened, at first impassively, and then with mounting anger. When he was told about the smashed spectacles and bruised bodies, he became furious.

“Damn and blast!” he bellowed. He had known this trip would be a disaster. Why had he agreed to come? He took a huge deep breath, but it did nothing to control his anger. Boston was correct; his boys were a disgrace. They had let themselves and the school down. More importantly, they had humiliated himself. There could be only one recourse to action.

“Do you possess a cane by any chance?”

Mr. Boston looked blank, as if he hadn’t understood the question.”

“A cane, man,” Mr. Tyler had lost none of his fury. His arm rose and fell, imitating a cane as it swished through the air.

“Oh, sorry. No,” Mr. Jessop flushed at the image of eighteen-year-old schoolboys touching toes and being caned on the seat of their pyjamas. It’s what the blighters deserved, he thought. Out loud he said, “We rather leave that sort of thing to the schools.”

“Mmmm pity,” Mr. Tyler’s brows knitted. Corporal punishment must be administered, of that he was in no doubt. He sat on the edge of his bed and slipped his bedroom slippers on his feet. “Please take me to them, Mr. Boston.”

He found a subdued group of sixth-formers, sitting on beds, silently contemplating their fate. They stood as Mr. Tyler entered the dormitory. He glared around the room and then stared intently at each miscreant. Many of the teenagers could not meet his eye.

The schoolmaster’s fury had not dissipated. “Stand by your beds, all of you.” Soundlessly, they shuffled into position.

“Thank you, Mr. Boston, I think I can take it from here,” he nodded at the door. The centre manager’s glum look did not mask his disappointment.

Mr. Tyler turned his attention once more to the sixth-formers standing miserably before him. What possessed them to behave like small children. Each one of them was clearly a young adult. Several in the room would need to shave their beards before breakfast time. The baggy pyjama bottoms they wore did little to disguise the presence of genitalia.

He jawed and jawed them. “A disgrace to the school.” “Your parents would be ashamed.” “What would the headmaster say when he found out?” The sixth-formers took it with mounting embarrassment. This episode could end in only one way.

“Well, if you insist on behaving like small boys, you cannot complain if I treat you like small boys.” He picked up an old wooden straight-backed chair and set it down in the middle of the room. A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as he sat, stooped down to remove a slipper from his right foot and spread his legs a little.

No boy dared look him in the eyes; had they done so they would have detected an unreadable gleam. The schoolmaster squeezed the bedroom slipper in his right hand before waving it in the general direction of the boys. “Lender, you first. Come here and bend over my knee.

“Oh, no, Sir.”

“Please, you can’t, Sir.”

“We’re sixth-form, Sir.”

The protests were predicable. Mr. Tyler cut them short.

“Would you rather I reported you to Dr. Fortescue? I am sure he will take a dim view that you have disgraced the school so publicly. I have no doubt he would convene a special school assembly to deal with you.”

He would do. Every boy in the room had no doubt at all about that. A public thrashing. Maybe even followed by suspension. No, matters had to take their course; this night, in the dormitory.

“Step forward, Lender.”

The eighteen-year-old’s face reddened. He had no choice. He must take a slippering. But, over the knee? That was just too humiliating

“Can’t I just bend over the end of the bed, Sir?” he implored.

“Pah! Don’t be absurd boy. If you want to behave like you are in a nursery, you must face the consequences.”

Lender shuffled forward. Bend over his knee? How was this done, exactly? Mr. Tyler was a shortish man and Lender was probably eight or nine inches taller. He stood to the schoolmaster’s left and looked down at his knees; they seemed a very long distance away.

“Come on boy, we don’t want to be here all night.”

Landers bent his own knees and leaned forward. He put his hands on the schoolmaster’s legs and eased his body down until his stomach rested on his bony legs. His own legs stretched behind him so his toes rested on the ground. He reached forward and placed the flat of his hands on the worn floorboards. He couldn’t see it, but his bottom rested at a forty-five-degree-angle ready to receive a spanking from the schoolmaster’s slipper.

But, Mr. Tyler was not yet ready. He had promised a “nursery” spanking and that was what he was going to deliver. An audible gasp echoed around the room when he gripped the waistband of Lender’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them, once, twice and three times until the teenager’s bottom was completely bared. Lender wriggled in protest, but the old man pressed his arm into the boy’s back. He was going nowhere. The movement sent the pyjamas slithering down his thighs until they came to rest at his knees. He was naked from his knee hollows to the small of his back.

Every boy in the room had a perfect view of his hairless bottom. Mr. Tyler, should he chose to, could see right into his crack. Nothing in Lender’s past life had been so humiliating. Not even the time he was caned bare-arsed in the headmaster’s study. Poor Lender soon found the slipper had a bite of its own, a stabbing ache rather than the vicious agony of the cane. The pain was slower to build up, but it did so nevertheless. The big supple slipper stung like crazy. Mr. Tyler spanked Lander’s bottom from side-to-side and up-and-down. His bottom was turning scarlet and his teeth were clenched and his eyes squeezed shut but his backside had not moved one inch.

“Up.” The spanking was over. For Lender, but not for Mr. Tyler. “Price. You next.” Over the next thirty minutes the old man put every sixth-former in the room through their paces. It was a very tired schoolmaster who retired to bed later that night. But, he slept the sleep of the Just.

Across the education centre grounds, six eighteen-year-olds took turns to lower their pyjama bottoms and bend over a bedstead for a searing six lashes of a Malacca cane administered on the naked haunches by an irate master. He had come on the fieldtrip prepared: St. Tom’s was after all a school for the sons of gentlemen.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The bully

Burley the sixth-former towered over the cowering junior, a cricket stump raised at shoulder height. “Lick ’em; lick ’em clean,” he sneered. The small, trembling boy knelt forward. Tears welled as he poked out his tongue and started to wash the bully’s shoes.

“You have got to do something about Burley. The way he treats the fags is disgraceful.” Carstairs leaned forward in his chair, “You should take him to task.”

Alsop sighed. His chum was right of course. But what could he do?

“He is giving us all a bad name. He’s nothing short of a bully,” Carstairs was not about to let the School Captain off the hook.

“And what do you propose I do?” Alsop’s face flushed.

“Beat him. Six. That’ll soon put a stop to it.”

Alsop stared across the study. His crook-handled ashplant cane hung from a hook on the far wall. “How can I do that, man? He’s a sixth-former. The Sixth can’t be caned.”

“Nonsense,” Carstairs sneered. “The Sixth don’t get caned. It doesn’t mean they can’t.” He pulled himself out of his armchair and stood over the School Captain. “If it were a junior doing the bullying, you’d soon have him bent over that chair.”

“Well …” Alsop seemed to be thinking about it. Burley certainly deserved a whopping. “But he’d never stand for it,” his face brightened. “Or should I say bend for it.” He laughed at his own poor joke.

“I’d wager any number of the fags would hold him down while you laid the ashplant across his arse.”

Carstairs was probably right, Alsop concede silently. But, it was pie in the sky. It would never happen.

Burley strode the passageway toward dormitory two. The juniors were preparing for bed. He could always catch someone out. He paused at the door and peered through the window. Good, he smiled to himself, one boy was out of bed. He’d soon cop it.

Burley knew sixth-formers were not allowed to beat the juniors. The juniors knew it also. Only the prefects could. That didn’t stop Charles Alfred Burley. Every evening without fail he managed to get one poor boy or the other across his knee. Pyjamas down.

“He’s spanking the juniors,” Carstairs was back in Alsop’s study. “Over his knee. Trousers down.”

Alsop furrowed his brow. “His trousers?”

Carstairs giggled, “No you ass. The poor junior.” He crinkled his nose as if suddenly a bad smell had wafted in the room. “It’s immoral. You know it is.”

It turned Alsop’s stomach. A bully was bad enough, but a bully with a fetish was too much.

He ran his hand through his thick wavy hair. “Would Burley take it? If I ordered him to take a punishment, would he?”

Carstairs face lightened. At last, the bully would get his comeuppance. “He’d jolly well have to. Any boy who refuses a whopping from a prefect would have to go to the head. It’d be a public flogging, for sure. The sack, even. Even if he were a senior boy.”

Alsop supposed it were true. No boy had ever refused a prefect’s caning, as far as he knew. But, then no eighteen-year-old had been ordered to bend over for Six, either.

Burley lounged back in the armchair in the School Captain’s study while Alsop jawed him. He wasn’t about to stand on the carpet, hands behind back, head bowed, like some junior while Alsop berated him. Alsop gave it all to him. Both barrels. The Bulley’s cold grey eyes bore into his accuser. Such hatred.

At last the School Captain had finished. He ran his hand through his hair and waited. Waited for Burley to respond. He scowled, “What do you want to do? Cane me? You know you can’t cane a sixth-form man.”

“Not so.” He interlocked his fingers. He looked down at the carpet, avoiding Burley’s stare. “The headmaster supports my actions.” It was a lie the Beak knew nothing about it. Burley’s grey eyes shone. He narrowed them, preparing to offer a retort. His smart mouth let him down. Silence engulfed the room.

At last Alsop broke it. “I want you to stand up.” He stood and waited for Burley to do the same. He did not. His puzzlement was writ large on his round open face.

Alsop was surprised his hands were shaking. He grasped them behind his back. He took a deep breath. “Stand up please,” he said with over-stressed politeness. “Or shall we visit the headmaster?”

Burley blew out his cheeks and hauled himself to his feet. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He hoped it was a stance of defiance. He eyed the whippy ashplant dangling from its hook.

“I rather thought not.” Alsop paced the study, but he did not reach for the cane. Instead, he gripped the handle of the door and opened it. “Follow me,” he ordered, looking back over his shoulder.

“Where we going?” Burley growled.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The School Captain led the way down the dimly lit passageway. Burley shuffled two paces behind him. Where were they going? If Alsop was going to whop him, why hadn’t he done so in the study? What was he going to do? He had left his cane behind.

Alsop halted at the top of the large spiral staircase. It was the central thoroughfare of the school. Every boy and master passed through it several times during the day. It was as busy as any provincial railway station.

“Wait here.” Alsop had a plan. He had discussed it with Carstairs. His chum thought it an excellent idea. It would be historic. Boys will talk about it for generations to come, he had said.

Six junior boys heading off to the football pitch, halted. Something was up, they sensed it. But what, they didn’t yet know.

Alsop pointed to a large wooden bench. “I want you to bend over.”

“War …?” Burley took his hands from his pocket and stood to his full six-feet-one-inch. He pushed back his shoulders. He all but clenched his fist, ready to punch the School Captain on the nose.

“I want you to place your hands on the seat and stick your backside out. I’m going to spank you.”

“No you’re jolly well not!” Burley roared, his face colouring with anger. He turned his back and made to leave.

“Or would you have me take you to the junior study and put you across my knee and spank you on your bare bottom?” He glared at the bully. “Just as you do each night in the dorms?”

Burley felt his heart beat faster. He wasn’t usually a nervous boy. He was big and strong and always got his way.

Not now. “Bend over, I said.” Alsop grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him so he faced the bench. Then, he pushed him forward. Taken by surprise, Burley slipped and fell so that his stomach rested on the wooden bench. Alsop took advantage of his position and pressed his hand into the boy’s back. For some moments he was pinned; helpless.

Alsop rained down slaps into the bully’s backside. Burley wriggled and cursed. In equal measure. A crowd of boys gathered on the stairs. What a lark. Burley the bully being spanked on his bottom by the School Captain. “What ho! Alsop!” they cried.

Alsop couldn’t keep it up. Spanking with one hand and holding his victim still with the other was a near impossible feat. Burley broke free and red-faced with humiliation, he pushed his way through the throng.

That evening Burley sat in a poorly-lit corner of the public bar at the Three Fishers Hotel. His companion fidgeted with the cuffs of his heavy woollen coat.

“Tomorrow at midday, I’ll give you a signal. Then you do the deed,” Burley’s grey stared burned into the man.

“Yussir!” The man gulped down beer.

Burley walked from the bar, leaving five shillings on the table.

Next day at noon in the village Burley strode across the green in search of Alsop.

“Alsop old man,” Burley held out his hand. “No hard feelings about yesterday, what-ho.” He shook the hand of the School Captain heartily and darted on his way, leaving Alsop both startled and puzzled.

Five minutes later a sock full of stones crashed into his face, breaking his nose and three teeth.

z used Sixth former gives another a spanking Mag

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com