I remember like it was yesterday

z used headmaster

It happened fifty years ago, but I remember like it was yesterday. If I take a moment I could probably give you the exact date. I know the exact time: 4 pm. It was early June 1967, classes at school had finished and we were about to take our A-level exams.

I had only been at the school since Christmas when I had moved to Brocklehurst because my father got a new job. It was hard for me, eighteen years old and without a friend in the world. The boys at school were a bit cliquey, they already had their friends and when I arrived as the new boy they didn’t need another one. They didn’t treat me badly, there was no bullying (well, not from the boys at least) they just ignored me.

I was a timid, shy lad totally lacking in self-confidence. If I had stood up for myself more it never would have happened. It was summer and since classes were over some of the boys would nip across to the Two Fishers pub, a notorious place where they never inquired about your age, at lunchtime. One afternoon two of the sixth-formers brought back bottles of Double Diamond. Double Diamond! I can still hear the jingle in my head A Double Diamond works wonders, works wonders, works wonders, a Double Diamond works wonders so drink one today! Jesus, whatever happened to Double Diamond? It went to same way as Watney’s Red Barrel, I suppose.

Maybe they were emboldened because it was nearly the end of their school career. Perhaps it was just that they had a drink too many at the pub, but they brazenly drank the beer in the common room. I know, because I sat, hidden behind a copy of Football Monthly, watching them. I was also there when Mr. Ash, the sixth-form master, came in and caught them.

I should rephrase that last sentence. He didn’t catch them; he caught us. Mr. Ash wasn’t one for niceties. He had no ambitions to be a great detective, nor for that matter to be an even-handed judge. What he saw were empty beer bottles and four sixth-formers. That was enough.

“Wait outside my study now. All of you.”

“B… b… Sir,” my protest was feeble. I wanted (I needed) to tell him I had not been involved. I was an innocent bystander. The other lads had guzzled the beer. Not one drop had passed my lips.

“Bangs,” he instructed a spotty, gangly youth. “Clear those bottles away. Don’t put them in the bin, I don’t want the cleaners to find them.” David Bangs sullenly hauled himself from the armchair where he had been slouching and swept the offending bottles up into his arms before disappearing through the door of the common room.

“Disgraceful behaviour,” Mr. Ash spoke as if talking to himself. “Unbelievable.” Then, gathering his black academic gown around his body, he intoned. “My study now. Go.”

My heart thumped. This did not look good. I had been at the school less than six months but I knew its reputation. It was traditional, not to say old fashioned. That meant traditional lessons, traditional games, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline.

My two sixth-form colleagues shuffled to the door. I sat transfixed. I hadn’t done anything, why should I be punished. I tried to form a sentence in my head. One that I could say to Mr. Ash that would explain the situation. One that would help him to see the error of his ways. One that would get me off the hook.

“I shall not tell you again Jeffries,” he growled at me. “Up. My study. Now. Go!.” Meekly and with my chin wobbling, I rose from my chair.

Mr. Ash’s room was in the passageway leading to the sixth-form common room. As soon as I exited I saw Vance Kearney and Danny McCarthy standing uncomfortably outside the study door. They broke off their whispers when they saw me coming. Vance was a tall, muscular eighteen-year-old. It was late afternoon by now and he needed a shave. His school blazer was too tight for his ever-growing body. Danny was shorter and in every way diminished by comparison with his partner in crime. His long, lank, greasy, black hair reached below his collar. That in itself would have been a beating offence for the younger boys at the school.

Vance looked across at me; even today I still feel my burning anger at his arrogance. He knew I was innocent. He could have intervened. He could have told Mr. Ash the truth. Instead, he leered, “It’ll be six.” To which his pal Danny just sniggered.

Six. The cane. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was that kind of school after all. I had never been caned before, nor slippered. My mum and dad had never raised a finger to me, not even when I was a little kid. Corporal punishment was unheard of at my last school. I hadn’t even seen a cane before, let alone felt one whacking my stretched bum.

I must have blushed; or paled or some such, because Danny and Vance both mocked me. “Six. Trousers down of course,” Vance said.

“Pants too, I shouldn’t wonder,” Danny agreed. I knew they were joking. How could a schoolmaster get away with caning a boy on his underpants? Or, God forbid! on the bare arse?

Danny and Vance suddenly straightened up. I hadn’t heard but they had seen Mr. Ash approaching down the passageway. The master was a man of few words. He mumbled some form of greeting and told Vance and Danny to face the wall. To me he said, “Jeffries, follow me.” Then, he brushed past, opened the door to his study and went inside. I’m not a very good writer so I can’t always find the right words, but if I said “my legs turned to jelly and I found I couldn’t walk” would you get the general idea?

“Come in Jeffries, don’t keep me waiting,” Mr. Ash called from inside the study. Somehow, I got my legs to work and I shuffled in. “Close the door. Were you born in a barn?” Mr. Ash snapped. I did so. “Stand there,” impatiently he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot in front of his desk. It was a large desk (in walnut, I think) dominating a room with wooden panels (oak, perhaps?). Along one wall were bookshelves. Another wall was dominated by an unlit fire. Across the way were two low-backed worn leather armchairs. I tried not to notice the coat stand in the corner. I stared at the red-and-silver-patterned rug beneath my feet. My hands were trembling so I clasped them behind my back. I must have looked a little like Prince Philip or one of the other Royals on a walkabout.

I don’t remember what Mr. Ash said to me. It’s not that I have forgotten after all these years, it’s because I was unable to hear him because of the deafening pounding noise in my ears caused by the blood rushing at breakneck speed through my arteries. My face must have been glowing red hot. I was sweating like a pig, even though I had left my fancy green-and-gold woollen blazer in the common room.

I don’t remember what he said but I recall everything about what happened next. Mr. Ash walked across his study to the coat stand. It was empty save for one thing. Hanging by its crooked handle was a swishy rattan school cane. Mr. Ash reached up toward it. He was a small man, I doubt he was more than five-six or seven. He gasped at the effort of movement. He turned to face me, cane in hand. He must have been in his sixties, his jowls, hooded eyes and slicked-back hair remind me of President Richard Nixon in his later days.

Mr. Ash wobbled the cane in front of me. His intentions were clear. My temples throbbed, I could not think clearly. I desperately needed him to understand. “I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me,” I bleated. My eyes dampened. I wasn’t yet crying. Tears would come soon enough.

“Stand behind that chair,” he pointed his cane at one of the armchairs. It was an ugly light brown, the colour of diarrhoea.

“No!!” I wailed. Mr. Ash stood, confused. My utterance wasn’t a cry of defiance, it was a piteous plea for mercy. “Please, no, please.”

The schoolmaster snarled, there really is no other description. He took the cane and flexed it between his hands. I had never seen a cane before. I was transfixed. It was more than three feet long and had a smoothed curved handle at one end. It was dark brown in colour and as thick as a ballpoint pen. He swiped the cane through the air, I felt a breeze as it travelled.

“Lower your trousers and bend over the back of the chair,” Mr. Ash spoke calmly. He was not one to engage in histrionics. He was the master; he was in charge, he expected to be obeyed. That was the point where I lost it completely. I was a shy boy, it was be humiliating enough to be forced to offer up my bottom to this horrible man for him to lash it with his whippy cane. But to do so with my trousers at my ankles and in my underwear was too much. I used to avoid any kind of sports because I couldn’t contemplate others seeing me like that.

Tears flowed down the valley between my nose and cheek, I gulped down air, desperately trying to fill my empty lungs. I tasted vomit at the back of my throat and sucked it back down.

Mr. Ash did not hide his impatience. “Trousers down, bend over.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the back of the chair. I made no attempt to comply, instead I pleaded for mercy. Fifty years after the event I still cringe with humiliation. Have you ever been in that position: at the mercy of someone without mercy?

“Pah!” he exclaimed and threw the cane onto his desk with such force it bounced three or four times before settling with a final rattle. Mr. Ash leaned into me, I could smell stale cigarette smoke on his clothes and what I am certain was whisky on his breath. He took hold of the belt of my trousers and deftly unbuckled it. I huffed with shame as he unzipped the front of my trousers and they slid slowly open. I was a growing boy and my white cotton underpants were too tight at the crotch. I was as thin as a rake and despite the hot summer we were enjoying my skin was pale and hairless.

I stood mortified while my pale-grey school trousers journeyed down my thighs to my knees. Not satisfied with the speed of travel, Mr. Ash took hold of the waistband with two hands and tugged them to my feet.

His face was puce; whether with rage or simply with the exertion of his actions, I cannot say. I must have been scarlet. Without a word, he grabbed my left shoulder and spun me round so that I faced the back of the chair. Then, he placed the palm of his hand on my shoulders and pushed me forward. I didn’t resist. I have no idea why not. Looking back I realise that I need not have gone through with it. I could have fled from the study. What could Mr. Ash have done to prevent me?

I suppose the consequence of fleeing would have been expulsion from school, examinations missed and no place at university. Mr. Ash held all the cards, there was no way I could have won. Had I been a stronger boy, like, I suppose Vance and Danny, I would have taken the thrashing stoically; lowered my trousers and offered up my arse to the cane. It would be over in twenty seconds. There would be pain; embarrassment certainly, but the world would move on.

I was not that kind of boy. Instead I now lay face down, nose in the dusty leather cushion, backside high, whimpering. I was bleating like a whipped puppy and the first stroke hadn’t yet landed. It was still some time to come. Mr. Ash had his preparations to make. We wore white cotton shirts in those days with long tails that covered the backside and the backs of the legs. Slowly, methodically, Mr. Ash took hold of my shirttail and folded it once, twice, three times until it rested neatly just below my shoulders. We also wore singlets (even in summer) and Mr. Ash simply pushed it up and away from the target area.

Mr. Ash would now have the sight of a snivelling eighteen-year-old prostrate across the leather armchair. I closed my eyes, shut my teeth and gripped the cushion for dear life. But, he was still not quite ready. I felt him take hold of the elasticated waist of my underpants. Danny’s words earlier, “Pants too, I shouldn’t wonder” flooded my mind. “No!!!” I yelled. Maybe I startled Mr. Ash, maybe he had intended to bare my buttocks and was deterred by my outcry. Probably not. In any case he didn’t pull down my pants; rather he tugged at the waist so that the already-taut cotton was tighter still. I felt cotton dig into my crack as if he were giving me a wedgie. The pants must have fitted my bum like a second skin, and to make sure there were no creases in the material, Mr. Ash rubbed the palm of his hand over my mounds, into the under-curves and over the backs of my naked thighs. I could have died of shame.

I heard the rattle of the cane as Mr. Ash retrieved it from his desktop. Then I felt it being pressed across the centre of my tight bottom. Then, he “sawed” it backwards and forwards. He was taking aim. Then, I felt the cane lift away. There was an almighty swish and the whippy rattan bit into and bounced off my bum. A second or two passed before I felt the agony. I had never felt such pain it was like he had pressed a white-hot wire into the flesh. This was no mere token caning, just a flick of the wrist; Mr. Ash was intent on hurting me.

The second swipe landed almost immediately. It struck just above the first and now I had a band of hurt about a half inch wide running across the centre of both cheeks. I howled, coughed, spluttered. My knees buckled and my feet stomped up and down on the wooden floor. There was nothing I could do, I was not in control of my body. It had taken on a life of its own; this was how it had decided to deal with the intense agony of a trousers-down caning.

I begged to be let off, protesting my innocence. Crack! Crack! Crack! Mr. Ash whipped me. My entire body was quaking; my backside quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

By now my pert backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. I was screaming, writhing and twisting.

Swipe! Number six sank deep so low it missed my underpants completely and left a dark red weal throbbing in the bare flesh on the back of my thighs. To this day I am convinced this was not a miss-hit. The vile bully had deliberately cut me. My shriek would have been heard by Vance and Denny outside and probably by anyone who happened to be walking through the quadrangle at the time.

The beating now over, I gradually ceased my screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness until, eventually, an eerie stillness enveloped the room. I had lost all sense of time. Perhaps I lay there for some minutes, maybe it was only seconds. Mr. Ash was probably studying his craftmanship, congratulating himself on a job well done.

I heard him quietly walk the length of the study and replace the cane on his coat stand. Now, the only noise in the room was my heavy breathing as I stayed slumped over the back of the chair.

“You may remove yourself,” Mr. Ash said pompously. I had stopped howling, but tears continued to flow and my top lip was covered in snot. My shoulders heaved and I had to put my hands on my knees while slowly I filled my lungs with air. “Get dressed, I haven’t got all day,” Mr. Ash couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.

I reached down for my trousers. My bum stung like a thousand wasps when I pulled them over my buttocks. My hands quivered as I tucked in my shirt and zipped my fly. I could hardly see the study door through my damp eyes. Mr. Ash opened it for me and I hobbled away. I don’t remember seeing Vance and Danny but I am sure they were there having witnessed the sound of my abject humiliation.

I walked around the streets for an hour before finally going home. I was too ashamed of what my parents would say if they found out. The agony had subsided by now but I was still sore when I sat down for supper that evening. If Mum and Dad noticed anything amiss they were kind enough not to comment.

I think about Mr. Ash and that day a lot. I have met lots of people over the years who were caned at school and many resent the experience for the rest of their lives. I am one of them. Mr. Ash must be in his grave by now. All I can say is I hope he had a long, lingering death.

 

 

Picture credit: Darrien

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #3

z used longs desk school or office (9)

Headmaster Canes Dads of Naughty Pupils

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The Headmaster of a Brocklehurst school canes the fathers of misbehaving pupils because he says it is the only way to maintain discipline.

Children are beyond the control of schools and their parents do not care to discipline them, Mr. Roland Cuthbertson, headmaster of Brocklehurst High, said.

Mr. Cuthbertson told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview the only sanction schools had against naughty schoolboys was to suspend or expel them. Since corporal punishment had been banned in schools there had been no effective sanction, he added.

“Parents should take responsibility for their children’s behaviour, but fathers rarely take an interest. Their boys can run wild,” he said.

So, Mr. Cuthbertson hit on an original idea. If he cannot cane the boys he will cane their fathers instead.

“I call the fathers into my study and explain the situation. Either they will take a beating on behalf of their sons or I expel them,” he said. “The idea is to give the fathers a short, sharp shock. I hope they then go home and mete out some proper discipline on their sons,” he added.

A father of two boys at the school who cannot be named to protect his son’s identity, told the Bugle, “I was called to the headmaster’s study and he lectured me like I was a naughty schoolboy. He told me my son was constantly disrupting classes and not handing in homework.

“The headmaster said since he couldn’t cane my son, he would give me six-of-the-best instead.”

The father said Mr. Cuthbertson then produced an authentic school cane from a cupboard.

“It was the real thing,” the father said, “with a curved handle.”

The father added, “The headmaster swished the cane about a lot. It was really whippy. I could see it would be very painful if applied with some force across my backside.”

Mr. Cuthbertson then uttered those immortal words that used to strike fear in naughty schoolboys across the land, “Bend over that desk.”

The father said, “I couldn’t believe it. The headmaster pointed to a small wooden desk and said I should lift up the tail of my jacket and bend right over. I knew he was serious, it was either this or my son would be expelled.”

He added, “I had no choice, I bent over and gripped the legs of the desk, closed my eyes and waited.”

Mr. Cuthbertson then delivered six-of-the-best.

The father said, “It hurt like hell. I don’t know how schoolboys in the olden days were able to stand the pain. I had six red stripes on my bottom. I couldn’t sit down comfortably for the rest of the day.”

Mr. Cuthbertson claims his unusual method works. “The father asked if he could borrow one of my canes to take home with him, a request I was happy to grant,” he said.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The choice is yours

Jason and Chris stood awkwardly, hands behind backs, eyes downcast. The principal was mad – if not, he was a pretty good actor.

“Senior boys acting like juniors!” he raged. “Fighting in the corridors!”

Jason looked at his partner in crime through the corner of his eye. “Too true,” he thought. “And if that faggot looks at me that way again, I’ll cripple him.”

Principal Golightly rose from his chair. He was an elegant man in his fifties, with premature silver hair. He was lean and fit, which is more than could be said for most of the other teachers at Rosewood College. Golightly took care of himself.

He ambled across his office and stopped by the far wall where his eyes ran along the shelves as if he had never seen his books before. Jason hopped from one foot to the other. His legs were tiring. He wished Golightly would just get on with it. What would it be? Detention? An essay? Why it is wrong to settle our differences with violence – a title like that.

Golightly turned his attention away from his book collection and faced his two eighteen-year-old students. He paused, weighing his words carefully. “I shall give each of you a choice,” he said, his voice sonorous. He paused again as if for dramatic effect. He had both teens’ attention. “You may take swats or attend Saturday morning class.” He paused once more before reiterating, “The choice is yours.”

He delighted at their shocked expressions. Jason’s eyebrows arched. Principal Golightly could read the boy’s eyes. “What the fuck?” they said, but Jason himself remained silent. Chris was the first to speak. “It’s against the law.”

I am the law at Rosewood,” Golightly drawled. He delighted in the ensuing silence as Chris’s face blushed scarlet.

“Well Manor, what’s it to be?” the principal stared intently at Chris although he already knew the answer. What eighteen-year-old would submit himself to the principal’s paddle. Taking a spanking was beneath their dignity.

“Saturday detention,” Chris croaked, and then after a beat or two, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Principal Golightly’s nose wrinkled. He turned his attention to Jason. “And you Taylor?”

Jason mind whirled. Saturday morning detention. No way. He had discovered a neat little bar off Main Street where the university girls went. Jason was five-feet-ten, with broad shoulders and trim waist and the most beautiful ass. The girls loved him. He could have his pick. He would be screwing some girl on Friday night and be in no fit state for school on Saturday.

His choice was not as the principal put it. For him it was not detention or the paddle; it was sex or no sex. A no brainer. Jason took a deep breath and as confidently as he could, he said, “I’ll take the swats, Principal Golightly.”

The principal hoped he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. This hunky eighteen-year-old was prepared to offer up his ass to the wood. To let a much older man blister his buttocks. Well, well, well, he thought, and he had supposed that Chris Manor was the gay boy here.

Principal Golightly straightened his shoulders. “Very well,” he intoned imperiously. “Manor, you should leave us.” He needed no second telling and within seconds Chris was on the other side of the door. Realising he was quite alone in the corridor, he put his ear to the door.

Inside the office, Jason stared ahead, determined to go through his ordeal with some dignity. He had never been paddled before; nor to his best recollection had he been smacked. Not ever. Not even as a little kid.

Principal Golightly walked slowly across the office to a long, narrow table. He delved his hand into his pants pocket and found a key. Jason watched intently as the silver-haired man unlocked the drawer, opened it, reached in and withdrew a heavy wooden paddle. It was awesome; easily eighteen inches long and maybe four wide. And drilled into its blade were a dozen holes. Jason wouldn’t know this (not yet, at least) but the holes were there to combat wind resistance and make the paddle fly faster through the air. The holes would also add to the blisters that he would carry on his backside for some time to come.

Principal Golightly caressed the wood, rubbing the tips of his fingers along its entire length. It was as if he had never before seen it. Then, he tested its weight and seemingly satisfied, he held it in his right hand and smacked it firmly into the palm of his left. Jason watched transfixed. It needed little imagination to conclude this was a mightily effective punishment tool.

“Put that chair in the middle of the room,” Principal Golightly nodded to an ordinary office chair. The command startled Jason and at first he was unsure what had been said. “That chair. There.” The principal waved his paddle at an area of rug. Jason fully awake now took hold of a small straight-backed chair. It was very light and he had it in place in no time.

Principal Golightly caressed the paddle some more. Jason watched him closely. The old man seemed to be contemplating. Was he having a discussion inside his head? Perhaps he was, and very soon Jason discovered the outcome of the interior dialogue.

“Stand in front of the chair.” Jason did as he was told. Why was his heart thumping? The palms of his hands were sweating too. “Now take down your jeans and bend over.”

“What the …” Jason’s mouth formed the words but no sound passed his lips, but his astonished look spoke volumes.

“Take down your jeans,” Principal Golightly repeated, slowly. “They are far too thick,” he said. “Besides, you are a senior boy and you deserve a senior boy’s punishment,” he added, but immediately regretted it. He owed this boy no explanation. He was the principal of Rosewood College, one of the most prestigious educational establishments in the state. He answered to nobody.

Jason blinked hard. Jeans down. Stand there in his underwear. And he thought Chris was the faggot.

“I am waiting,” Principal Golightly, intoned. “Or do you wish to change your mind and take Saturday School,” he sneered. He knew Jason would not back down. His pride would be hurt.

The eighteen-year-old bit his bottom lip and with fingers that trembled more than he wished, he unbuckled his belt. He felt the principal’s glare burn into him as he fumbled with the metal buttons and allowed the front of his jeans to fall open. He paused, summoning the courage to go further.

“Take them down. Right down. To your feet,” Principal Golightly waved his paddle menacingly. Jason released his hold on his waistband and the jeans slithered over his thighs and down to his knees. The weight of his belt and the denim cloth took them further south where they puddled at his feet.

Principal Golightly’s eyes shone. The teen wore rather old-fashioned white cotton briefs that were tight enough to demonstrate to him that Jason was no boy. “Bend over. Take hold of the seat of the chair. Make sure you stick your bottom out.”

If looks could kill. A mixture of contempt and defiance clouded Jason’s usually bright, open face. He turned his back on his tormentor and in one swift, athletic movement he positioned himself to perfection to receive paddle swats.

Principal Golightly took the paddle in his right hand, stood close up to the boy and tap-tap-tapped it across the centre of Jason’s rear end. The term “buns of steel” might have been invented for the boy. His muscles stretched to present a solid target. There was no “give” anywhere. The principal lifted the heavy blade away from the cotton-covered ass and with all the strength he could muster – which was considerable – he returned it at speed pounding it into the proffered buttock cheeks. The crack!! echoed around the office. Its intensity startled Chris who stood on the other side of the door. He heard Jason’s startled yelp as the pain shot through his buttocks and raced up and down his legs. Chris touched his own backside with his fingertips in an involuntary act of solidarity. His dick stiffened.

Inside the office the paddle rose and fell once more. Now, every square inch of Jason’s buttocks seemed on fire. He wriggled his hips, stomped his legs and gripped the seat of the chair as if his very life depended upon it. Principal Golightly pressed his left palm firmly into the small of Jason’s back to steady the boy. He was going nowhere; not until the principal said so. Swat three landed lower and a red mark imitating the paddle blade instantly formed on the back of Jason’s thighs. His wailing was terrific. He did the wriggling and the stomping thing again and this time wrapped his left foot around his right ankle in a desperate bid to stop himself from jumping up to rub away at the terrifying agony. It felt like Principal Golightly had poured boiling water over him.

Tears flowed with the fourth swat. Jason despised himself, but the tears and the wailing were his body’s way of coping with the enormous battering it was getting. He gripped the chair’s seat and waved his head backward and forward, rather like horses do when they neigh. Snot dribbled from his nose, his heart raced and it felt like blood would burst through his ears.

“Last one,” Principal Golightly announced quietly. He pushed his left hand firmly into Jason’s back, steadying the teen. Then he raised the paddle high and with tremendous force landed it across the underside of the cheeks. Bam!! He let go his grip and Jason shot to his feet jumping up and down rubbing furiously at the seat of his briefs, tears soaked his cheeks. He hopped from foot to foot  in the traditional spanking dance. Principal Golightly pretended not to notice Jason’s dick has swollen and was staring against the front of his tight cotton underpants.

“Get dressed.”

Jason pulled his jeans up, wincing as the heavy denim rubbed against his scorched flesh. Soon he had the belt securely fastened.

“You should leave now,” Principal Golightly spoke softly, “And no more fighting.”

Jason hobbled to the door, opened it with shaking hands and exited. The corridor was empty, he did not know it but Chris was at that moment locked in a lavatory cubicle furiously jerking off. Jason ruefully rubbed at his rear end. The agony had gone, replaced by a dull ache. Within fifteen minutes or so that would become a tender throbbing. The pain would disappear quite quickly, but Jason did not yet know that it take until after the weekend for the bruises to disappear. Friday would be devoid of sex after all.

z used paddle white pants chair office

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the Tyrant Headmaster

z used drawing cane master sil (35)

I shuffled down the passageway that led to the headmaster’s study. I was in no hurry to suffer the consequences of my actions. I still had a few seconds more before I faced that humiliation.

I stopped outside the study door and pulled from the pocket of my school blazer a blue-and-white hooped cap. I plonked it on my head and then adjusted it so it would fit neatly over my short-back-and-sides haircut to the satisfaction of the headmaster. I was in enough trouble as it was: I did not want to annoy Dr. Fortescue any further.

The fancy headgear summed up the school to me. It was so full of itself: which schools still made their pupils wear caps? I was glad I was eighteen and in the sixth form; all the younger boys were forced to wear grey flannel short trousers.

I stared for a while at the heavy oak-panelled door. This school was out of date and so damn ancient; this was 1968, everything should be fresh and new. But not St. Septimius Independent Grammar School; here it was 1968 going on 1908. St. SIGS dated from sometime in the seventeen-hundreds. It was a traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite public school.

My heart beat faster. I knew what would happen after I knocked and Dr. Fortescue bade me enter and I did not relish the prospect one little bit. How I hated St. SIGS; I wished I had never been awarded that damned scholarship last term. I nearly said “won” the scholarship, but believe me it was no prize.

Taking a deep breath, I raised his fist and with more confidence than I really felt, rapped on the door.

@

“Enter!”

I know who it is, it’s that guttersnipe Eldridge; the scholarship boy. What the hell are boys like him doing at my school?

I blame the new Socialist Government. They are forcing good schools like St. Septimius to take on boys from the working classes. They have no right to be here. No right at all. Eldridge. What does his father do? He’s a postman, and his mother cleans offices. A charwoman! What right have they to send their son here? They should know their place.

I do not care if he has the top marks for mathematics in the county examinations; he will never amount to anything. He does not have the breeding.

Now, I am supposed to deal with the brat. He is on a charge of insubordination: answering back to Mr. Jenkins, the maths master. Well I know how to deal with that, all right.

“Stand there boy! Right in front of my desk.”

@

I closed the door and took up position on the slightly worn rug, as instructed. I suppose usually a boy in this situation would stand eyes cast down at is feet, desperately trying not to catch the headmaster’s eye. Well, stuff that. I stood, hands clasped firmly behind my back and stared intently at him. What a seedy, ridiculous specimen, I thought. I could smell the peppermint on his breath from five paces. His face was ruddy and his nose glowed. Tiny veins were so raised through his skin I could have squeezed half a glass of whisky from them. Dr. Fortescue was pear-shaped and wore a waistcoat buttoned tightly across his portly stomach with a gold (or at least a gold-coloured) watch-chain tucked into a pocket. On his back he wore a rather tattered black academic gown.

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 were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall.

I stood silently waiting for the inevitable lecture to begin.

@

I shall wipe that faint but irritating smirk from his face: is he daring me to use the cane on him?

I should lecture him about his bad behaviour and the need for good manners and how he should obey the instructions of the masters at all times. It is the lecture he should receive and I shall give it soon, but my heart will not be in it.

Nothing I say or do will turn this son of a charwoman into a gentleman. He was born and raised as an oik and he will continue to be an oik long after he has left this school to take up a job in a factory somewhere.

Why is this Socialist Government so envious of our kind of people? We have produced the leaders and the administrators that built the biggest empire the world has ever known and we did not need scholarship boys to do it.

In a few moments, when my lecture is completed I shall thrash him and send him on his way. I enjoy the sense of power I hold over him, knowing that I could give him real pain if I so desire. Let the Socialists make of that what they will.

@

I stood impassively only half listening to the headmaster. There was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. Dr. Fortescue was dubbed “The Tyrant Headmaster” by the boys with good justification. He had arrived at St. SIGS a decade or so previously. He had been brought in by the governors to shake the school up a bit. Examination results were slipping, discipline was slack. Something must be done. The good doctor only knew one method. Legend had it that from the very first day he publicly thrashed a sixth-former and he would never stop flogging until the day he died.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The headmaster jawed me. I had been “impertinent.” “Insolent.” “Impudent.”  All I had done was to question the maths master’s answer to a quadratic equation. The maths master was wrong, I was still sure of that, but at this school a boy never, ever, questioned a master: about anything.

The lecture over, I watched, heart now thumping, as the headmaster rose from his seat and waddled across the study to a tall, thin cupboard. I had never been in this study before, but instinctively I knew what it contained.

I stared slack-jawed into the open cabinet. The array of canes was impressive. There were nine assorted rods, some with the traditional crook-handle; most were made of rattan and two were dragon canes. Dr. Fortsecue leant into the cupboard obscuring my view, but I heard the rattle of six or seven thin canes rolling around inside the cupboard as his headmaster selected the one he would use to beat me.

Satisfied, Dr. Fortsecue closed the cupboard door and turned to face me. I had never seen such an awesome rod. It was the headmaster’s pride and joy: a Malacca cane. It was no bigger or thicker than any of the other canes in the cabinet; but it was denser. This one had notches every three inches or so along its length. I ran my tongue across my teeth, all saliva had drained from my mouth. I knew instinctively these notches would cut into my flesh and leave severe bruises and welts.

@

I have selected a rather stout, but still extremely whippy, Malacca cane. It is a bit thicker and longer than some in my collection and it will deliver a sting that this guttersnipe will feel for a long time to come. I swish the cane through the air a few times. There is no need to do this, but I hope it intimidates the boy somewhat. I want to give him time to contemplate his fate. In a few moments this fearsome rod will be whipping into your outstretched buttocks and the agony you will feel will be intense, is the message I hope to convey. And, you deserve it. Never again will you question the authority of your betters.

Eldridge’s eyes have widened. I do believe my intimidation is working.

“Take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the door!” I bark out the order, as if we were on a parade ground. I want this experience to be awesome, something that he will never forget.

Slowly, he fumbles with the buttons of the blue-and-white school blazer and pulls it off. He seems unconcerned about what is about to befall him. I suppose he is putting on a brave face, as they say.

“Cap off too boy!” It seems he may have forgotten he had it on his head.

Suitable disrobed, I order him to approach my desk. I thwack the cane down hard against it.

@

“Please lower your trousers and bend over the desk,” the headmaster says as if it is the most natural request in the world to make. An eighteen-year-old young man compelled to present himself in his underwear for a thrashing from a vile older man.

I doubt if I hid contempt I felt as the drunken old soak swished the cane through the air. I would not be intimidated, I told myself. I would submit to the beating, but only because I had no choice. If I refused I would be expelled from the school and that would give the odious snob Fortsecue far more satisfaction than he would get from simply beating me. Besides, by that age I had realised I wanted more from life than a dead-end job with low wages and no future. That was already the fate of my pals back at Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. For poor kids like us the only escape was through sport or by becoming a pop star. I had no talents in those directions, but I had discovered a third way: education. I was good at exams and at St. SIGS I would ace them and go on to university.

I had never been caned before, but I had enough imagination to suppose it would hurt a very great deal indeed. That was the point, surely. But, the purpose of corporal punishment also was to ensure compliance in the beaten boy; to make certain he obeyed the rules in future. But the only rule I had broken was to question the wisdom of his maths master. Such is the injustice of corporal punishment.

I suppressed a sneer when Fortsecue ordered me to remove my blazer and cap. So, we are nearly there. Any moment now, I would be compelled to show my arse to my master. What a farce. I could not understand why my hands shook so much as I unbuttoned my blazer.

My heart raced, as I tugged at my belt buckle. Suddenly, it dawned on me that this was no picnic. However defiant I might feel inside, outwardly my body and more specifically my backside was about to be attacked by a man more than three times older than myself. Submissively, I must present myself to this man and allow him to whip my buttocks as hard as he wished; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to prevent it.

With blood racing through my body and temples throbbing, I let my trousers slither down my thighs. I took a deep gulp and lowered myself over the desk.

I lay face down across the huge walnut desk topped with green leather, the scent of my own aftershave sticking in my throat. I strained my arms ahead of me and held tightly to the edge. My mid-grey trousers were at a puddle at my feet. The headmaster neatly pulled my shirt up to my shoulders. My white Y-front underpants felt tight across my stretched buttocks. A window was slightly open and a soft breeze wafted across my bare legs.

@

He presents his bottom perfectly for the thrashing he is about to receive, but I want to make him suffer a little more.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart!”

It is all entirely unnecessary, but I enjoy watching him wriggle over the desk trying to comply with my demands.

Eventually, I decide he has been kept waiting long enough.

I give my usual lecture to boys I am about to thrash. “You must keep perfectly still. Do not wriggle or try to get up before I give you instruction to. If you do so I will award extra strokes. I trust that is clear!”

“Yes, Sir!” he responds in a clear voice. Is he daring me to whip him as hard as I wish because he can take it?

But, now Eldridge is breathing heavily. This is more like it. It is common among boys about to be beaten; even the repeat offenders fear the cane.

I slide the cane from middle to top, from top to middle and from middle to the crease between buttocks and thighs. I can hear the increased tension in the yob’s breathing before I lift the cane away, raise it to shoulder level and swipe it down, landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of his buttocks.

I tap again, twice actually, draw back and give the next cut lower, but not harder. This time his body flinches a little, but his head does not move. He does groan and I appreciate his mettle. The ability to stay still and not move or cry out does not come naturally to most boys, certainly not ones new to the cane. How I hate him for his fortitude.

I will not allow this wretched boy to get the better of me. I lash him harder than I have ever thrashed a schoolboy. His bottom dances under my strokes, twice I have to remind him not to struggle. The threat of extra strokes makes him comply. After the full nine strokes have been given, he lays sobbing over the desk; he is a very sorry boy. Which is how it should be.

@

I shuddered when I felt for the first time in my life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of my pants to warn me the punishment was about to begin. I knew I had to go through with it now. I wanted it to start so that I could get it over and go home. My buttocks tensed and untensed in fear of the pain of the first stroke. It was a reflex action; I had no control over my body’s movement.

Swish! It propelled a lung-full of breath out of my mouth and left me gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying my lungs for a second time, and making me gasp in desperation. It rose up again for the third time and swooped lower down to thwack into the crease between buttocks and thighs. That was when I cried out. Humiliated. Literally beaten.

The next three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into my arse, around about where the cheeks meet the thighs. I yelled fit to bring the oak-paneled walls of the study crashing down. I gripped the edge of the desk for dear life my fingernails biting so deep I thought they might break.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, I tried to catch my breath. My heartbeat was racing and phlegm rose in my throat. Any second now I feared I would spew a stream of vomit across the desk. Up and down the cane rose.

The intense agony which started in my buttocks travelled through my whole body. My face and neck were as scarlet as my backside. Tears flowed down my cheeks to meet the snot dribbling from my nose.

The pain mixed with my humiliation. This awful man had forced me to submit my backside to him and he had whipped it to shreds. And, he had enjoyed every moment of it.

When I was permitted to rise from the desk, how I hated Fortsecue and his school full of snobs. I despised his whisky-soaked face and tubby beer-gut. I loathed above all his poisonous attitude.

The intense pain quickly subsided to a deep throbbing and very soon was just a warm glow. The marks on my bum lasted a week or so and the cut he had landed on my thighs made it difficult for me to sit in comfort for some hours. I hated The Tyrant Headmaster with all the passion that only a teenager can muster.

I aced my exams and went onto university and had a successful career as a mathematics professor. I never gave Fortescue a second thought until one day when I was in my twenties my mother sent me a cutting from the local newspaper. The decomposing body of Dr. Fortescue had been found in the house where he lived alone. It had laid unnoticed for six weeks. A half-empty bottle of Teachers was nearby.

 

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The Tyrant Headmaster

A glint in the eye

Don’t bully our mum

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

What would his girlfriend say?

z used after girlfriend story sting

Harrison sped down the passageway. His arse was on fire. There was nobody around so he was not embarrassed kneading his scorching flesh. Jesus H. Christ, he was on fire. Moments earlier he had been stretched across the worn leather chesterfield coach in the headmaster’s study. Nose pressing against the stinking leather. Trousers at his ankles; Y-fronts at his knees.

The headmaster laid on twelve stingers. Twelve. A dozen. On the bare arse. Was that even legal? Bloody hell, he’s eighteen years old, almost an adult.

Harrison heaved his shoulder against a door and pressed hard against the force of the overhead spring. Great. The sixth-form bogs were unoccupied. Carefully, he unbuckled his belt and let his mid-grey trousers slip over his buttocks. Then gingerly he eased down his cotton underpants. The throbbing was intense. Then, he pointed his bare bum at the mirror. Crikey! The marks will last a month, he thought.

Suddenly, the door opened. In walked his best pal Tollinson. He paused in the doorway and seeing Harrison’s corrugated flesh, let out a low soulful whistle.

“I heard you had been called to the beak,” he said, moving further into the lavatory. “Well he’s given you a good set of marks.” He licked his index finger and gently traced one of the longer, deeper cuts with it.

“Sorry,” he lied, when his friend winced as the pain was reignited. As any schoolboy would, Tollinson was greatly enjoying his pal’s distress. “It looks like a map of Clapham Junction,” he grinned.

Harrison twisted his body to get a closer view while Tollinson carefully massage his hairless bum with the palms of his hands. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg back here,” he grinned.

Harrison grimaced. “Look at those cuts,” he sashayed his bum. “It’ll take forever for them to clear.”

“A week at least,” Tollinson confirmed. “When Davis got done, there were bruises for ten days,” he added with authority, “and he only got six.”

Harrison cupped one buttock in his hand and weighed it ruefully. “I’m meeting Sandra tonight, what’s she going to say?”

“Your girlfriend?” Tollinson asked sulkily. “Do you mean you’re doing it?” He assumed like himself, every boy at the school was a virgin. There were no girl pupils. The only action the sex-starved boys got came courtesy of their right hands. Or (he supposed) the left for those so inclined.

“Of course,” Harrison straightened his shoulders. The cock of the walk. “How do I explain this?”

Tollinson stared at the ridged arse and shrugged, “Tell her the truth, why not?”

Harrison eased up his underpants and trousers. Tollinson struggled to hide his disappointment. Harrison buckled his belt furiously. “I told her I was a student at Brocklehurst Uni. How can I explain this?” He rubbed the seat of his trousers in case Tollinson didn’t understand.

Tollinson pursed his lips. “Tell her you flunked a test and your professor gave you a bowing to buck up your ideas.”

“Will she buy that?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, right,” his pal chortled. “Come on, let’s go home.”

The two schoolboys walked down the passageway. One distressed and the other delighted there would be no nookey for Harrison that night.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory

z used drawing cane master Mag (53)

George Harkness hurried towards the bus-stop, late for work. A fascinating discussion about the failing economy in Venezuela on The Today programme had delayed his departure from home. If he hadn’t been late he would never have seen the young man.

He saw him as he turned out of The Avenue. He was equally in a hurry. George Harkness sucked in breath. There could be no mistaking it. The dark (almost , but not quite) black hair cut close to the scalp. The long thin drawn face, covered in acne. The gangly gait the young man had as he weaved his way through the busy pavement, his painfully thin body dodging mothers with strollers.

It was Will Rigley.

Will Rigley, as George Harkness lived and breathed. Unmistakable.

Except that this man was about twenty years old and Will Rigley, like George Harkness himself, was thirty-eight.

George Harkness watched the man disappear into the distance. It was Will Rigley. An exact likeness. How could this be? George Harkness chewed his bottom lip, his heart suddenly racing. He hadn’t seen Will Rigley in twenty years, was it possible that this man was his son?

As George Harkness waited patiently for his bus to arrive, he was transported back in time. It was 1997, Will Ridley and George Harkness stood uneasily in the headmaster’s study. Literally on the carpet.

St. Francis Independent Grammar School was fighting the tide of progress. Dr. Cuthbertson loomed over the boys, his grim, lined, grey face, a little flushed. Between his hands he flexed a stout but supple rattan cane. George Harkness watched intently as the ageing headmaster swished it through empty air. It made a terrific swooshing noise as it went.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in state schools a decade earlier and most private schools had voluntarily given it up. Not so St. FIGS. It was a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. St. FIGS was trapped in aspic, somewhere just after 1945. George Harkness and Will Rigley stood to attention in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study, weak light streaming through mullioned windows. All three buttons on their green-and-gold blazers were fastened. Striped ties were tightly knotted. School caps were perfectly positioned on their heads. They were the perfect embodiment of the post-war schoolboy. First formers at the school still wore traditional grey short trousers and knee socks.

Dr. Cuthbertson wore a gown over his tweed suit, a mortarboard cap on his head. He glowered at the two sixth-formers before him.

George Harkness shivered at the bus stop, uncertain if it was caused by the nippy autumnal air or the memory of the visit to the headmaster’s study. George Harkness and Will Ridley were eighteen years old. Legal adults. Old enough to vote. Old enough to join the military and kill people. Old enough to have sex – even with one another. The exams started in three weeks’ time and then they would be out of that place.

Dr. Cuthbertson cared about none of this. They were pupils of his school. They had broken the rules and should be (and would be) punished. He swished the cane once more. “Take off your caps and blazers and put them on my desk,” he intoned. Will Rigley, anxious to get on with proceedings, quickly unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He was no stranger to this. It would be Six, he knew that. It would hurt like blazes, he knew that too, but the pain would quickly dissolve into a throbbing before turning to a dull ache.  He would live.

George Harkness knew none of this. Unlikely though it might sound in a school like St. FIGS he had never been beaten. He was relatively new to the school, having joined the sixth form when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a directorship at the borough council. Caned for the first time, aged eighteen. What the hell would they say at his former school if they ever found out?

George Harkness watched as Will Rigley put his blazer on the headmaster’s desk and then carefully placed his cap on top of it. He returned to his original spot on the carpet, clasped his hands behind his back and stared intently at the floor. He seemed very calm. Unlike, George Harkness. George Harkness couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. They would not at first obey his instruction to unbutton his coat.

“Come along boy, we haven’t all day,” Dr. Cuthbertson growled and menacingly flexed the stout curve-handled cane between his hands.

Sweat started to soak the back of his shirt as George Harkness at last slipped the blazer from his shoulders and with trembling hands he placed it next to that of Will Rigley. He too resumed his position on the carpet in time to see the headmaster stride across the study towards a low-backed armchair. He tucked his cane under his arm and in one smooth movement swivelled the chair so that its back now faced into the room. He stood by its side and slipped the cane into his hand. He thwacked it against the padded apex of the chair and barked, “Rigley, you first. Step forward.”

George Harkness held his breath. His heart pounded and his shirt was by now soaked in sweat although it was cold in the study. He watched intently as Will Rigley took three paces forward. That was enough to leave him standing behind the chair.

“Bend over.” It was a curt command. The headmaster was in charge. He gave orders and others obeyed. That went for the schoolmasters as well as the pupils. Not, of course, that he ordered his masters to bend over for a swishing. Well, there had been that one very junior English master, but Dr. Cuthbertson was certain the wretch would not have shared the details of his ordeal with others.

George Harkness had a perfect view as Will Rigley drew a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and went over the back of the chair. It seemed to George Harkness like Will Rigley had dived into a pool of iced water. Will Rigley gripped the soft cushion of the chair. The back of the armchair was low and there was a gap of several inches between it and Will Rigley’s stomach.

“Head low, bottom high, feet further apart.” The eighteen-year-old obeyed each command. He was now ready to receive his thrashing.

George Harkness had never had cause to think about it before, but now watching Will Rigley present himself he realised how impossibly thin he was; almost unhealthily so. Will Rigley had legs like pipe cleaners and his bottom was but two pimples, his bum looked awfully small against the headmaster’s stout whippy cane.

George Harkness watched intently as Dr. Cuthbertson sawed the cane across the centre of Will Rigley’s bottom. He took careful aim, then lifted the cane away from the seat of the pale grey trousers, before whipping it back with terrific force. A tremendous crack as cane connected with backside echoed around the study. Air hissed through Will Rigley’s clenched teeth. His buttocks swayed under the sting, but he quickly settled himself for stroke number two. George Harkness watched in awe as a white line appeared across the seat of Will Rigley’s trousers. He imagined a thick red welt must be throbbing across Will Rigley’s buttocks.

Dr. Cuthbertson resumed his sawing, a little lower this time. He took his time, finding a spot on the under cheek, close to where the buttocks meet the thighs. Then he let fly. Will Rigley did the hissing and the buttock swaying again. This time he added a little knee bending. But, as before, he quickly settled, inviting the headmaster to deliver the third cut.

George Harkness’s temples throbbed. His head ached. Saliva drained from his mouth. He gave a throaty cough. The third stroke was aimed higher, near the crest of the mounds. Will Rigley now had three parallel welts, perfectly delivered. The pain was intense. Will Rigley felt his eyes welling and screwed them tight. He  wouldn’t give the old goat the satisfaction of tears.

The headmaster paused, took two steps back and then slowly paced the study. George Harkness stood fascinated. The headmaster was admiring his handiwork from every conceivable angle. He took particular care to study Will Rigley’s face and neck, which were as red as his backside undoubtedly was. George Harkness saw Dr. Cuthbertson’s tongue dart through his pursed mouth before slowly licking first his lower lip and then the upper, all the time his gaze was on Will Ripley’s tight buttocks.

It seemed like an eternity to George Harkness (and also probably to Will Rigley) before the headmaster once more took up position behind and slightly to the left of the prostrate sixth-former. Will Rigley tensed as he felt the cane tap-tap-tap against his thigh. Whack! Total agony. Will Rigley fought to suppress the yell he desperately wanted to make. The back of the thighs was the most sensitive part of the body on offer to the headmaster. Many schoolmasters would agree it was bad form to beat a boy there. A caning should only be on the buttocks; that’s what God had made them for.

George Harkness screwed his eyes tight, he could not bear to watch further. What he failed to see was the headmaster alter his stance slightly. Now, he sawed the cane from the lower left buttock to the higher right. He used every ounce of his considerable strength to lash a diagonal cut across Will Rigley’s bum. He howled. Will Rigley didn’t want to but he had no choice. It was the most natural reaction his body could make to the utter agony he felt. The cane had flogged across the previous cuts reigniting the pain in them all. Blood gently oozed at the points the cuts intersected.

Dr. Cuthbertson moved position once more. This time the cane rested from the lower right to the upper left cheek. Whoosh! When Will Rigley later inspected his bare bum in the boys’ bogs he would find a perfect “X”. For now, he clutched the soft cushion of the armchair as if his life depended on it. His hips wriggled, his buttocks swayed and his left leg entwined the right. He gulped in draughts of air like a goldfish out of water. He wanted to leap to his feet and rub away at the intense burn that engulfed him. His bum had been ripped to shreds. He knew he must not do this. It would only encourage Dr. Cuthbertson to award him extra strokes.

The headmaster resumed his stroll around the study. Will Rigley’s bottom was now still. It jutted out once more at a perfect angle to receive the headmaster’s administrations. Dr. Cuthbertson tucked the cane under his arm, approached the teenager and gently rubbed the palm of his right hand across the contours of Will Rigley’s buttocks, making circular motions as he caressed every square inch.

“You may rise. Harkness take his place.”

George Harkness felt a jolt in his back. A man in the queue behind him was pushing forward. The bus had arrived. George Harkness reached into his pocket for his pass and made to board the bus. It was full and he had to strap-hang the whole journey. He had not thought of that incident in twenty years. His first and only caning. He had not taken it well. Tears flowed at the first cut and by number three he was howling like a banshee. It embarrassed him greatly. It took more than a week for the marks to completely disappear.

He left the school a few weeks later and went away to university. Will Rigley went away too and George Harkness never heard of him again. Corporal punishment was eventually outlawed (even at St. FIGS). George Harkness quickly forgot about the school and Dr. Cuthbertson until one day in 2005 his mother sent him a cutting from the Brocklehurst Bugle. Dr. Cuthbertson had committed suicide one day after police raided his house  and found a dozen or so commercial video tapes, some depicting scenes of “headmasters” spanking “sixth-formers”.

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 exam results are out

Michael slumped on the couch, legs dangling over the arm. He shifted from one buttock to the other. He couldn’t get comfortable. His thumb pressed the television remote. Three hundred channels and none worth watching. It didn’t matter, he couldn’t concentrate. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Checked the time. Dad would be home soon. Michael had ten minutes maximum. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and hauled himself to his feet.

It was a small room, but he paced it anyway. Four steps this way, then four back. He stood by the window, hidden from the view of the street by net curtains. Carefully, fearful the neighbours would see, he twitched the nylons. Now he could see the front gate. Damn. A small red hatchback pulled up. Seconds later the driver’s door swung open. A large man lumbered out. He stood and stretched his arms before looking to right and left. Certain that no vehicles were coming he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Michael stood and stared, heart thumping. He had been waiting all day. Since eight that morning when the school examination results had been released.

He let go of the curtains and paced the room once more. He stopped and drew in a deep breath. The front door opened and closed. “Michael! Where are you!” his father called. Michael’s throat dried. Before he could croak a reply his father was framed in the doorway. “Ah, here you are.”

Mr. Fairclough stood six-feet four. He was broad at the shoulders and trim at the waist. His face was lined and his hairline retreating. He stood peering at his son. Michael in contrast was small and as thin as a bird. His hair fell over his chocolate-brown eyes, his skin was clear except for a small rash of spots under his chin, the result of an attempt to shave away non-existent hairs.

“Two F’s and a D.” Mr. Fairclough spoke calmly. The silence in the room was intense. Neither father nor son needed to say more. They had said it all on the phone that morning. Both knew the importance of the statement. “Bone idle. Lazy. Feckless. Useless. Hopeless.” Mr. Fairclough sounded like he had swallowed a thesaurus.

“But Dad. It’s the new A-levels. We never had a chance to practice.” Michael’s attempt at an excuse was thrown back in his face. Dad listened to the radio news like everybody else. Yes, the Government had changed the rules and sixth-formers now had to rely only on one exam and no coursework, but that hadn’t stopped other kids getting top marks.

“Go fetch Eric.” It was a cool command. Dad didn’t need to raise his voice, he knew his son would obey.

“Ohhh Dad,” Michael groaned, but he left the room nonetheless. Matters had to take their course. Shortly he was at the cupboard under the stairs. He knew where to find Eric. It would be exactly where he had left it after the last time. He leaned into the cupboard, mover the vacuum cleaner and two winter coats hanging on hooks. On a third hook hung Eric. Eric was the pet name they gave to a solid wooden paddle. Carefully, Michael unhitched it and weighed it in his hand. He had felt it many times before. In his hands and across his buttocks. It was about fourteen inches long and four wide and maybe a quarter inch thick. Many years ago, when his eldest brother was young, he supposed, someone had taken a permanent black marker and carefully imprinted the name Eric across the blade. Who? Why?

Michael straightened his back, pushed the door shut and stood silently. His pal Charlie had flunked his exams as well. Michael knew damned well he wouldn’t be showing his dad his backside for a beating.

“Hurry up,” his father called, “Let’s get this done before your mother gets home.”

Michael’s feet dragged across the vinyl flooring.

“Give it here,” his father reached out his right hand. Avoiding eye contact Michael handed Eric over. Mr. Fairclough gripped the paddle by its handle and swiped it through the air, testing its properties as if he had never handled the wood before.

Satisfied that it would do the job, he observed his son standing before him.  It was high summer and even in the early evening the heat was intense. Michael wore a white t-shirt and cotton sport shorts. His feet were bare.

“You know what to do.”

Indeed, he did. Michael took a further pace into the room so that he was close to the far wall. Then, turning his back on his father, he put the both thumbs into the elasticated waistband of his shorts. In one continuous movement he had both shorts and underpants at his knees. He spread his legs wider and they slithered to his feet.

He sucked in a lungful of air and unbidden he bent at the waist. Keeping his knees straight, he gripped his shins. His bared buttocks jutted at a perfect angle to receive his father’s attention. Bent over like this, he was uncomfortably conscious of his bum. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle. At first he stared at his feet and the label in his football shorts. Twenty-eight inch waist. He heard a rustle behind him. He knew from experience it was Dad finding his own feet, taking up position an arm’s length from Michael’s left buttock.

The eighteen year old closed his eyes and shut his teeth as he felt the cool wood touch his bare bum. He breathed deeply. Any moment now.

Mr. Fairclough was in no hurry. There were still ten minutes before his wife was due home from work. Plenty of time. Michael’s creamy white hairless bum contrasted starkly with the rest of the boy’s nut-brown skin. He had been spending a little too much time in the sun. More’s the pity he hadn’t been in the library, his dad thought.

He sawed the blade across the centre of the two buttocks. They were small and pert. Mr. Fairclough pressed the wood into the flesh, there was no “give”. The boy had no spare fat. The term “buns of steel” could have been invented for him. Mr. Fairclough allowed himself a wry smile as the proffered buttocks twitched in anticipation of the hurt to come.

Then, he drew his arm back, twisted his body slightly and brought the paddle down with maximum force. A dark pink rectangle burnt into the white flesh. Michael’s body rocked forward and back but the teenager kept his balance. He scrunched his face, at first he felt only the force of the blow. Then the ache began to seep across his buttocks and throughout his body. He steadied himself. Ready for number two.

Mr. Fairclough sawed again. This time a little lower. Just under the cheek. The flesh that connected with the chair when Michael sat down. Wallop! Another red rectangle. Michael gasped, air expelling between his lips. He couldn’t help it. That was a scorcher. It had literally taken his breath away. The hurt was intense, it would be tender for a long time to come.

The third swat hit higher. Now the whole of Michael’s tight bum was dark pink, the outline of three paddle blades clearly visible.

Mr. Fairclough paused to admire his handiwork. From his vantage point his son’s bottom looked raw. He changed the paddle to his left hand and leaned forward and with his right palm he caressed his son’s buttocks in a circular motion.  Michael tensed. His father’s hand reignited the pain. Involuntarily, he wriggled his hips.

“Keep still,” his father barked, pushing his hand into his son’s shoulder blades and forcing him back into position.

The paddle rose and fell three time in quick succession rap-rap-rap landing on the same spot; the fleshiest part of the teenager’s rear end. Michael gripped his shins. That hurt. That hurt a lot. His head shook up and down, rather a like a horse when it neighs. His lips pursed, then his teeth bit unto the lower one.

“Ouch!” Michael couldn’t help it. Dad had deliberately landed a swipe across the back of his thighs. The boy rose on his toes then stamped his feet up and down like a solider on sentry duty.

“Back down,” his father growled. “you stand up again and we’ll start all over.”

Tears filled the boy’s eyes. Reluctantly, he resumed the position. Head low, bottom high, knees straight. From across the room the ringtone of his phone chimed. That would be Charlie, he thought, seeing if he wanted to go drinking to drown his exam failure sorrows. The paddle crashed once more across his raw, naked buttocks.

z used paddle bare touch toes domestic tropixxxstudios (1)

Picture credit Tropixx Studios

Other stories you might like

 

The paying guest

Professor and the fresher student

The smoking schoolboy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com