All is well in the world

new 5

Harry Clifton was in no hurry. He ambled across the quadrangle. It was a fine day in early summer. The sun shone. The sky was blue. It was all in all a beautiful day. Except is wasn’t a fine day. Not for Harry Clifton, the sixth-form pupil at St. Francis Independent Grammar School; the soon-to-be former pupil of said school. The final exams were only weeks away. Then freedom. The end of school. Whoever it was who said schooldays were the happiest days of your life was an ass. Surely, Harry Clifton supposed, things could only get better after St FIGS.

Harry Clifton was on to something there. He knew as sure as eggs was eggs that this present day could never count as one of the best of his life. Ha! He almost smiled the best. Not so much the best, but six-of-the-best. It was a weak joke, but it was the best that Harry Clifton could come up with. He passed through the entrance of Founder’s Building and into a short, dark passageway. He was answering the summons of his headmaster. Chaps were only called to the Beak for one reason and one reason alone. There could be no doubt about it. Harry Clifton was in for a bowing. A swishing. A caning. Six-of-the-best.

Harry Clifton knew this for certain because St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline. No matter how slowly he walked Harry Clifton would eventually reach the heavy oak door of the headmaster’s study. He might delay his ordeal by a few seconds, but he could not put it off forever. He paused outside the door and ran his hand through his unruly hair. He rubbed each shoe against the back of his trouser leg. They were far from shining, but they would have to do. He made sure all three buttons on his green-and-gold woollen blazer were correctly fastened. All was ship shape and Bristol fashion. He was under starter’s orders. Ready for the off. About to go over the top. He drew down a deep draught of air, formed a fist with his right hand, raised it, and with more confidence than he truly felt, he rapped on the door.

Silence. Nothing. He craned his neck and placed his ear closer to the door. Was the headmaster not at home? Had he been called away on an urgent mission? Did this spell a reprieve for Harry Clifton? No, the senior sixth-former considered. The Beak had probably not heard. He bunched his fist again and was about to have another go at the door when a clear, sonorous voice rang out from the other side, “Come!” The headmaster had heard all right, he was only playing his silly games.

Harry Clifton sucked in air once more, gripped the handle and pushed the heavy door open. He hesitated on the threshold of the study. “Come in boy, don’t dawdle,” the headmaster rasped. Harry Clifton jolted forward and landed in front of the headmaster’s vast walnut desk. “Pah! Close the door Clifton! Close the door,” the Beak thundered.

With that task completed Harry Clifton once more stood before the headmaster. The Beak presented an imposing character, drenched in ugliness. Standing, he made a tall, lank, almost skeletal figure. His gaunt face, was heavily lined. His aquiline nose and thin pointed chin made the appearance of a caricatured witch. He wheezed through his nose. His dark piercing eyes transfixed on the boy before him.

For his part Harry Clifton resolved not to meet that alarming gaze. He focused on a spot over the headmaster’s shoulder, at a hat stand in the corner of the room. It was an ancient beat-about piece of furniture, old enough to be steeped in the tradition of the school. It had served many headmasters at St FIGS over countless generations. The number of hats it had supported over the years was a matter lost to history. The present headmaster had an additional requirement for the furniture. Harry Clifton’s gaze transfixed on the three long, thin whippy rattan canes that dangled by their curved handles. Small and relatively unobtrusive though they were, to the boy standing awaiting punishment they dominated the study.

Harry Clifton swallowed hard. The canes were of differing thicknesses, densities and lengths but he knew with absolute certainty that in the hands of the headmaster any one of these rods would “take his backside off” as the schoolboy slang then circulating had it. Alongside the canes hung the headmaster’s black academic gown and the flat mortar-board cap, the official uniform of schoolmasters across the land. The badge of office. The seal of power.

Harry Clifton did not concentrate on his droning headmaster. The room was hot and airless and the monotonous voice was sleep-inducing. Suddenly there was silence. A long, pregnant pause. “Well boy!” the headmaster barked. Harry Clifton shook awake, the headmaster leaned from his chair forward over the large desk, his black piggy eyes blazed, “What have you to say for yourself?”

At a loss to the question he had been asked, Harry Clifton mumbled an all-purpose reply. Schoolboys up and down the land and throughout history when carpeted in the headmaster’s study were required to utter these words at some point in the proceedings, most often immediately before the real action began. “Sorry, Sir,” he coughed, his throat irritatingly dry.

“Bah!” the headmaster ejaculated and leaned back in his chair, his nose and chin quivering so that the points of each almost touched. “Not good enough, Clifton; not good enough.” Harry Clifton had never supposed it would be. He expected Six and he wished the headmaster would just get on with it. The school day was at an end and he was anxious to be away home. He had a date to meet the boys at The Three Fishers that evening and there was every chance to meet girls of a certain character.

The headmaster jawed on and on. Smoking. Smoking cigarettes, surely the biggest crime imaginable at a school. Why, the headmaster had only last week delivered another of his edicts. He cared little about the harmful effects of tobacco to one’s health. It is unlikely that he had ever read about the causes of cancer. Cigarettes were banned because he said so. It was an order. Orders were given by those on high and obeyed (unquestioned) by those below. The hierarchy of a school was beyond question. The headmaster’s word was law and if that law was broken there could be only one outcome. The punishment must fit the crime. If orders were not obeyed society would crumble; the country would go to the dogs. Anarchy would reign!

Harry Clifton had been smoking on and off since the age of eleven and by the age of eighteen had developed a ten cigarettes a day habit. No headmaster’s proclamation was going to alter that. The craving for nicotine far outweighed any danger of capture. It was just bad luck that Mr Hopkinson, the junior sports master, had carelessly left a gym sock behind after lessons that morning. Harry Clifton was caught cigarette in hand. Mr Hopkinson, whose contract of employment at the school had yet to be confirmed, was delighted at the opportunity to demonstrate his loyalty to the tradition of St FIGS.

The headmaster had finished his jawing. “Take off your blazer Clifton. Hang it there,” he curled his lips and cricked his neck in the general direction of the hat stand. Harry Clifton had not expected the palms of his hands to be sweating. He wiped them on his blazer and tackled the three buttons. As he lifted it onto the hat stand he observed the three whippy canes in close up. They really didn’t look so awesome. None was thicker than a pencil. Their dark yellow colouring made them look old and worn; they were warped through excessive use.

As he was doing this he was aware of noises behind him. Floorboards creaked; the headmaster was on the move. By the time Harry Clifton turned back to face into the study the Beak had moved an ancient, armless, straight-backed chair into the middle of the room. He sat down and wriggled his bony buttocks in an attempt to achieve comfort. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the worn rug close by himself. “Stand there boy,” he rasped. Harry Clifton stood for a moment enveloped in confusion. He had half-expected a chair to be placed in position, but then if the usual script was being played out he, Harry Clifton, would be bent across the thing; head low, bottom high, offering up his posterior to his tormentor’s cane.

But what was this? The headmaster glowered across the room. “Now!” he roared, since he was unable to ever speak with a natural voice. A bemused Harry Clifton shuffled forward until he stood a foot or two to the right of the headmaster. At this point, the Beak spread his legs offering the wretched sixth-former a bird’s-eye view of the Beak’s bony thighs and knees. Harry Clifton’s head swam with confusion, but things were about to get much worse.

The headmaster’s ugly, lined face looked up at the boy, his mouth cracked into a sneer, “Lower your trousers and bend over my knee,” he cackled. The sneer widened into a full-on smile, revealing a set of nicotine-stained teeth that many would describe as “tombstones.”

Harry Clifton’s own mouth gaped open. He uttered no words, for it was not his place to question his headmaster. His mouth opened and closed so he resembled a goldfish. This could not be happening. Trousers down. Bend over my knee. No, it should be, Bend over that chair. It’s six of the best for you m’lad. The world’s order was being turned upside down. What game did the headmaster think he was playing?

“I’m waiting,” the headmaster growled. “Bend over,” and he slapped the palm of his right hand against his knee in case there could be any doubt about his instruction. Harry Clifton knew his face had flushed bright red; sweat made the collar of his shirt stick to his neck. His palms were once again damp. What should he do? Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. The words pounded in his head. What should he do? What could he do?. A chap expected a caning at a time like this. Commit a felon, bend over, whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack. Stand up. Dismissed. All over. The punishment fits the crime. The world moves on.

But, Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. That was not cricket. That was a nursey spanking. Something a chap might have expected from Mother when aged six. What was the headmaster thinking?

A disinterested observer might say Harry Clifton should tell the headmaster all this. “I’ll take a caning Sir, even trousers down if you insist, but I’ll not be humiliated by going over your knee.” But could Harry Clifton, or indeed any schoolboy faced with a similar predicament, say this? Harry Clifton was a bright boy and he weighed up the consequences of disobedience in seconds. The headmaster had instructed him to take a punishment and no matter how bizarre that might be he had no choice – absolutely no choice – but to obey.

Failure to comply would lead to suspension, or possible expulsion from the school. He would not be allowed to take his exams. He hoped to attend college, or even university, but without qualifications that would be impossible. No university meant no career. A life of drudgery as a clerk in some accountant’s office would be the best he could look forward to. He had to take the right decision.

Harry Clifton bit down hard on his bottom lip. He avoided looking at his tormentor as he unbuckled his belt. His pale-grey trousers were loose fitting and once he had unbuttoned the fly they slipped down over his thighs and knees and travelled at speed to rest in a puddle over his black lace-up shoes. He stood before his headmaster in gleaming white cotton Y-front underpants. His equally bright white shirt was long enough to cover most of his buttocks. Harry Clifton stood modestly with his hands clasped across his private parts.

He was an enthusiastic rugby player and quite used to undressing in company. Of course, after a match the whole team would romp naked in the showers and changing room. But standing here like this, trousers at his ankles in front of his headmaster, prior to going across the Beak’s knees for a little-boy’s spanking was beyond humiliating. How the sixth-former hated the vile, ugly bully.

“Bend over.” The command was terse. Harry Clifton peered down at the headmaster’s knees. They were thin and bony and encased in smart, striped trousers with a crease sharp enough to cut through cheese. Harry sucked on his bottom lip and pondered for a moment. How exactly was this done? Was he expected to leap over the Beak’s body, as if flying over a vaulting horse in the gym, and then land face down? Should he ease himself down gently by resting the palms of his hands on the headmaster’s thighs to steady himself as he spread his body forward?

“Pah!” the headmaster misunderstanding Harry Clifton’s hesitation for reluctance gripped the eighteen-year-old by the left wrist and tugged him forward with such ferocity that the boy tumbled forward. He stretched his arms in front of himself to avoid crashing and dug his palms into the ground. His nose was inches from the rug. Like this his head was low and his bottom was raised high over the headmaster’s thigh. Harry Clifton’s legs dangled in mid-air.

It took a second or two for him to recapture his breath. He was a trifle dizzy. Being prostrate across a man’s knees was an unusual posture and gave a boy a distorted view of the world. It had literally been turned upside down. How different it was to preparing to receive a caning. Then, a chap was required to “bend over” but whether he was across a chair or a desk or simply touching toes he always kept on his feet; he was vertical as it were, if he chose he could see what was going on around him. There was little disorientation.

Going over-the-knee was altogether different. Harry Clifton could see nothing but the old rug beneath his face; bent at this angle it was nearby impossible for him to turn his head. He was extremely vulnerable. He could see little but his other senses were unimpaired. His crotch ached as the weight of his body pressed against the headmaster’s thighs. He heard the Beak wheezing and felt the Old Man’s rough hand grip the tail of his shirt and tug it half way up his back. Then, a hand gently caressed the seat of his underpants as it smoothed away creases, even though the Y-fronts already fitted snugly. The hand patted and preened. Then it tapped gently across the fleshiest part of the left cheek.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Suddenly. Spank! The hand swiped into the left buttock and then the right. Then it went high; then low. The headmaster smacked his rough hand with speed and force across Harry Clifton’s upturned buttocks. The boy stared down at the rug, his bemusement growing. He felt the hand strike his bottom again and again and again. The sound of hand hitting hard flesh resounded around the hot, airless study. It sounded like machinegun fire. The headmaster put all his beef into the spanking, delivering maybe eighty slaps in the first minute – and there were many more minutes to follow.

Harry Clifton lay face-down, head low, bottom high and let his headmaster get on with it. For he had quickly realised that a hand spanking did not hurt – even when delivered with vigour across the set of his tight, cotton underpants. Of course, he felt something. A tingling sensation. A slight warming of the flesh. But pain? No. A properly delivered six-of-the-best with any one of the three whippy, rattan canes that were at that moment still dangling from the hat stand could have had him howling. His bottom would feel like it had been beaten to become twice its natural size. Dark, vicious welts would throb beneath his underpants (even if he were allowed to keep his trousers up). The marks and associated bruises would last for days. He would display them proudly to the rugby boys in the showers.

But this? This over-the-knee spanking. Nothing. “My,” Harry Clifton pondered silently to himself, “I bet his hand is hurting more than my bum.” He almost smiled at the thought.

So, it went on. The headmaster spanked Harry Clifton on the seat of his underpants and the boy had to submissively allow him to do so. The headmaster was in control. There was peace in the nation. The Pound was sound. God was in his Heaven.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Murph in the headmaster’s study

The housebreaker

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A school-leaving present

new 5

The beautiful grounds of St Francis Independent Grammar School basked in the cloudless July morning, but it was lost on Mr Price, the deputy headmaster. The dour Welshman, pushing sixty, tall and bony, had the usual grim expression on his gaunt face. It was now halfway through the last week of summer term and in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Price regarded as his natural prey – the sixth-form boys – would be leaving forever and be beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made him grind his teeth.

He made a tour of the grounds but typically he did not pause to admire them. He was a master with a mission; on the lookout for any boy breaking a rule (and there were many at the school) so that then he could march him to his study and administer a stiff caning.

But all was quiet. No boy was out of bounds, slinking in part of the school where he had no business. No illicit cigarette had been smoked behind the gymnasium. No boy was out of class without permission. With shoulders slumped, tight-lipped and angry, Mr Price trudged through the entrance to the main school building, heading back to his study.

As he turned the corner from the entrance hall he saw three sixth formers, dashing down the passageway laughing merrily as they tossed a cricket ball between themselves. He saw them, but they did not see him. Mr Price took a short step to his right, ensuring all three bundled into him. He stumbled and toppled to the ground as if pole-axed. He sat on his backside, counted silently to a beat of three, and then roared, “You boys! What is the meaning of this? Rushing through the school like a group of hooligans. Playing cricket! Inside! How dare you!”

He hauled himself to his feet and with his hand brushed dust from his tattered academic gown. It gave him pleasure that the three boys had each turned pale with apprehension. “Outrageous! Disgraceful!” he glared at each boy in turn. “Ha!” he slowly licked his bottom lip, three senior boys, each would be leaving school at the end of the week. “Unbelievable behaviour,” he intoned. “You will all, of course, be punished.”

Oh yes, all three would definitely feel the swipe of his cane – and on their bare backsides. But what luck, one of the three just happened to be the sixth-former Mr Price most fancied in the whole school. Most fancied caning, that is. Tony Phillips: he would certainly be his first treat. He couldn’t wait.

“You two boys, I shall deal with you later. You may go now and I shall send for you when ready.” They dashed off, silently.

“Phillips, you will come with me. Now!”

Tony Phillips, aged eighteen, was indeed a choice victim for Mr Price: tall, handsome, slender but muscular with a mop of unruly fair hair. His pale-grey trousers fitted snugly around his flat stomach and firm rounded buttocks. His clear, open face was now clouded with dismay as Mr Price hurried him along the passageway.

The deputy headmaster’s study was small but functional. A desk dominated one half of it. Across the way were a couple of ‘easy’ chairs with wooden arms and low backs. Cupboards and shelves ran along one wall. The only window was wide open allowing a gentle breeze to waft into the otherwise airless room.

Inevitably, Tony Phillips had been in this study before. The last time had been just after Christmas when he and two pals had been caught throwing snowballs. His bottom twitched as he now recalled that last visit. It had been Six; with trousers down. God! he pondered, would it be bared-arsed this time?

Mr Price locked the door and sat down behind his desk. “There!” he snapped his fingers and pointed. With wide eyes, Phillips shuffled so that he stood the other side of the desk. Mr Price searched through a pile of exercise books, faking interest. This was part of his ritual, not caning immediately but taking his time, allowing a build-up of the handsome boy’s nervous tension, while Mr Price savoured his fear.

“Well, Phillips, what have you to say for yourself?”

“P…Please, Sir… I… I didn’t know. I mean…” the boy trailed off and stared down at his shoes.

“Pah! You behaved like hooligans. Really I should have thought at your age that you would know better. It’s quite appalling, in a senior boy.”

Phillips flushed. What could he say? He knew Mr Price well enough. Matters would have to take their course. He bit his lip. Mr Price concentrated again on the pile of books. At last he pulled open a drawer and dropped the lot inside.

“Well Phillips,” he growled, “this is not your first visit to my study. It is quite obvious that the canings you have had in the past have done nothing whatsoever for you. But I can tell you, boy, I intend to give you a thrashing which you will remember for a long, long time to come. And really I think it’s the best possible school-leaving present you could have.”

He struggled from his chair and stood. Across the study was a tall, thin cupboard. He nodded at it. “Phillips, go to the cupboard and select the cane I should use to beat you.” Phillips felt his ears burn. He hated this, what was a boy supposed to do? The cupboard was full of canes; some longer and thicker than others. All had the traditional crook handle. All were whippy and any one of them could leave his backside bruised for days – longer even if the brute caned him on the bare.

If he choose a smaller, thinner rod would he be telling the master he only deserved a mild punishment? What if he took the longest and thickest? Did that mean he thought Mr Price should whip his arse off?

“Don’t dither boy. I haven’t all day,” the deputy headmaster growled. Phillips closed his eyes, reached into the cupboard and grabbed the first cane he felt. He withdrew it and turned to face his tormentor. “Hand it here, boy,” Mr Price reached out and snatched it. It was a heavier cane, very suitable for the older boy. Mr Price flexed it between his hands and despite its thickness it curved easily. He swiped it through the air, testing its weight. “An admirable choice, Phillips. Splendid. This will do the job very well.”

Phillips stood rooted to the ground. “Take that chair, put it in the centre of the room,” Mr Price indicated one of the easy chairs. It was lightweight and the eighteen-year-old had no difficulty moving it into position.

“Take off your blazer, put it on my desk.” The instruction was clear and calm, Mr Price did not betray in his face that his heart was pounding and his mouth had suddenly dried. He watched interestedly as Phillips slipped the jacket from his shoulders and with unsteady hands folded it and dropped it on the desk. Not daring to look at Mr Price he returned to his place behind the chair.

The cane swished once more through empty air. “Trousers down, Phillips.” The sixth-former had expected this but even so his stomach lurched and through moistening eyes he glanced down at his own body. The pale-grey trousers fitted snugly and he had no need of a belt. All he had to do was pop a button on the waistband and pull the metal zipper. It wasn’t much to ask, but his hands still found the task nearly impossible. They would not stop shaking. A snorted, “Bah!” from the deputy head spurred him on. At last the front of his trousers gaped open and he encouraged them to slip down his thighs. A bunch of keys in his pocket and the force of gravity helped them hurtle onwards to the floor.

The tail of his bright-white shirt covered most of his equally gleaming Y-front underpants. Phillips stood, his heart thumping, terrified that the next instruction he heard would see his pants travelling south to meet his trousers.

Mr Price took a step backwards so he stood behind Phillips. “Bend over the chair boy,” he croaked. He did not see the look of relief light up the boy’s face for Mr Price was staring at the two firm cheeks pressing against the white cotton underpants. As Phillips fell forward his buttocks tightened further so they resembled two hard rubber balls. Mr Price swallowed hard and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

Phillips got himself over so that his hands held the wooden arms tightly and his back was arched. “Head low, bottom high. Feet apart boy. You know how I like it,” Mr Price had recovered most of his voice and he watched until Phillips lowered his head, wriggled his hips and spread his feet until he had submitted himself to the deputy headmaster’s entire satisfaction.

“Right boy,” Mr Price was quiet, as if speaking only to himself. He tucked the cane under his right armpit and with his hands now free he took hold of the tail of Phillips’ shirt and carefully folded it so that it was away from the buttocks and the target area. He paused, to admire the two, hard buttocks displayed before him. He did not try to resist the temptation to  curve the palm of his right hand and gently cup the contours of the right buttock. Phillips’ back stiffened when the deputy headmaster’s fingers explored the crack between his cheeks before caressing the left buttock. Then, Mr Price rubbed the undercurves of Phillips’ bum before polishing the backs of his thighs. Finally, he gave the eighteen-year-old two almost playful slaps across the centre of each cheek.

“The last time you were here you were caned on your underpants,” Mr Price said carefully. “It did not seem to have the desired effect to moderate your poor behaviour,” he paused and took hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants. Phillips’ mouth formed the figure “O” but he spoke no word. “So,” Mr Price voice rose an octave, “we must get rid of these,” and he eagerly whipped the pants down in one swift movement, rather like a magician revealing the end of his trick. “They really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this, do they?” he gasped as Phillips winced and closed his eyes tight.

Mr Price guided the Y-fronts down the back of the teenager’s thighs and left them snagged at his knees. He swallowed hard, licked his lips and took a moment to drink in the delight of seeing Phillips’ naked buttocks for the first time. They were indeed splendid, twitching in all their glory. His full white, hairless bottom was waiting for his cane, crying out for discipline.

Mr Price slipped the cane from his armpit and held it tightly just under the curved handle. He flexed it thoughtfully all the time staring at the naked flesh that would soon be his target. “Keep the legs straight so that the bottom is high. Keep your head well down. Keep the bottom quite still. Departures from these simple rules will result in extra strokes. And I will just repeat that I do intend – today – to give you something special. To remember when you have left St Francis’ A special leaving present.”

Phillips heard none of this, his head was throbbing and the room appeared to be spinning. A strong breeze from the open window brushed his bare buttocks and legs. Nor did he feel the cane as Mr Price “sawed” it across the very centre of his buttocks and then gently tap-tap-tapped it across the fleshiest part of the mounds as he found his aim.

z used cane hold white pants down armchair school Hornet

And then. Swipe! Crack a jolt cut across the full meat of Phillips’ bum. “Ahhggghhh!” He shuddered and wriggled as the fearsome pain burnt into his flesh. The deputy headmaster had not been lying. Phillips had never been caned like this before.

“Keep the bottom still, boy!”

He couldn’t, he tried but his body continued to judder as the pain travelled from his bottom up and down his legs. His temples throbbed as savagely as his behind and his eyes were damp. He gripped hold of the wooden arms of the chair, trying manfully to offer up his bum for the next stroke.

CRACK! It was harder than the first and landed about a half inch below it. He let out a shriek and his bottom wriggled and writhed. His feet stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. Mr Price stood back, admiring his handiwork. Two deep, dark-pink lines throbbed across the buttocks. The boy’s cries spurred him on. He tapped the cane across the juddering bottom, lower still. CRACK! CRACK! The cane rose and fell twice more.

After five lashes Phillips had no control and he jumped to his feet, hopping from foot to foot while simultaneously rubbing the palms of his hands across his scorching buttocks. Mr Price stood transfixed, eyes staring at Tony Phillips’ uncut cock as half-erect it bounced before his gaze.

“Phillips, how dare you! Get back over that chair at once. Immediately, I say!” he roared, feigning outrage. The teenager wailed, almost incoherently, “I can’t … it hurts so .. It’s too much … No more, please!”

“Silence boy,” Mr Price flexed the cane irritably between his hands and then to show his annoyance he swiped it against the back of the chair, “How dare you, What are you talking about! I have certainly no intention of halting a caning halfway through. I promised you something special as a leaving present. Now get back into position immediately.” He mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “Really it is unheard of that a member of the Upper Sixth cannot take a caning properly. Now get back and control yourself!”

Now, sobbing, Phillips forced himself to turn on his heels, face the chair and once again lower himself over. “Get that bottom high. Jut it out more boy,” Mr Price spoke sourly.

Trembling, Phillips stuck out his buttocks, showing his master his once-smooth, creamy cheeks, now decorated with five blistering stripes: three running perfectly parallel and the final two at angles where the wretched boy had jumped up squirming with agony.

“Keep still, I shall give you three more,” Mr Price brayed as he tapped the cane across the undercurves to get his aim. He was going to slash these with extra vim and when he was done, he would tell the worthless boy he was getting six extra for his improper behaviour in standing up.

Mr Price took a deep breath, raised the cane above shoulder height, twisted his body slightly and let fly three times. The cane bit deep into the softer flesh where the cheeks meet the thighs. Phillips hailed like a banshee. Surely, with the study window wide open, people could hear the screams as far away as the High Street.

The bottom shone red-hot, Phillips slumped across the chair, snivelling into the soft cushion. “Six more,” Mr Price announced the additional tally gravely, “A senior boy must learn how to take his punishment stoically.” The poor boy was too exhausted to react. The deputy headmaster lay the tip of his cane at the highest point of the cheeks, where they nearly meet the spine and landed one of the harshest stingers so far. Phillips bottom was so raw and his body ached so much his brain hardly registered the additional pain this caused.

Slowly, methodically, Mr Price swiped five more cuts across the raw cheeks, each one an inch lower than the earlier one. Of course, some landed on already throbbing welts and sliced deep into the meat of Phillips’ twisting, squirming rump. Then, like a nightmare it was finally over. Mr Price surveyed his work: the sobbing trembling boy, the scarlet-striped bottom… Yes, Phillips would remember this day all right.

Phillips stumbled to his feet when told to, and still shaking and crying, fumbled the white Y-fronts and pale-grey trousers back up. “’Now, Phillips: I trust that is something you will remember.”

“Y…Yes… S…Sir,” the boy could hardly gasp!

“Because I am very saddened to find these shortcomings in your behaviour just on the point of your leaving St Francis. You will be expected to carry the school’s standards with you, you know, after you have left here, as a living example of this great school.”

Tony Phillips’ mouth opened but nothing came out except for a panting gasp. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Very good. Well, I hope it has been a good lesson for you. You may go now.”

Mr Price unlocked the door. As Phillips went out past him, none too steadily, he repeated, “Remember now,”  and gave the boy’s throbbing bottom a final sharp slap.

Conscious of the heavy weight inside his underwear Mr Price slouched on the chair that moments before Phillips had been sprawled across. Oh, how he would love to sink a delightful gin and tonic. But this could not be. He smirked to himself, that would have to wait. In his mind he pictured Phillips’ scarred bottom. It had resembled a map of Clapham railway junction! Yes, it had been a very fine school-leaving present … for himself! And, he still had the prospect of those two other charming bottoms to enjoy. He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and slipped his hand inside.

 

Picture credit: Hornet (Sting Pictures)

 

Other stories you might enjoy

Housemaster’s double caning  

Late up in the morning

Late at the office

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

St Francis Independent Grammar School: Snowballs

Dr Henderson-Smith the headmaster was at his most self-important. Five hundred schoolboys sat in rapt attention.

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, berated his boys. He was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. His white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

The headmaster had centre stage and the old ham actor was enjoying his moment. The topic of his sermon was snowballs; and the throwing thereof. The dangers of eyes poked out by shards of ice. Damp clothes and influenza.

He wrapped his academic gown around his body giving the appearance of a crow about to take flight. “I do not have to spell out the consequences to any boy found throwing snow.”

Undeniably he did not. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school. It had traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. An errant boy could expect a very sore backside indeed.

It was proving to be one of the worst winters on record. Brocklehurst had been carpeted with snow for most of December and January. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come.

That evening George Baker, sixth-form pupil and prefect at St Francis, stared from his bedroom window. The snow was falling once more. He tucked a hot water bottle beneath his sheets and dived under the blankets. Shivering in bed, he went through a plan in his head. He had been thinking about it for months. Maybe, he thought, one day, he would put the plan into operation.

The next day Dr Henderson-Smith sat in his study. The school day was completed. The open fire roared, but there was still a chill in the air. He busied himself preparing a composition to inflict on his Upper VI Latin class. His concentration was disturbed by a dull thudding noise. He paused from his labours, uncertain what it was that he had heard.

Then, there it was again. Thud. Something had connected with the outside of the study window.

“What the Dickens?” the headmaster said aloud, even though he was alone in the room. When a third thud followed, he was certain he had solved the mystery.

A handful of snow was slithering down the outside of the window.

He rushed over and peered through the now-misty glass.

“What the …?” This time he failed to complete the sentence. Below his study window, in his clear view was a boy throwing snow. Dr Henderson-Smith watched dumbfounded as the boy crouched down, scooped snow into his hand, fashioned it into a ball, and then threw it, seemingly at random at passing pupils.

z used drawing snowballs Mag (2)

The boy was clearing disobeying the headmaster’s instruction. No snowballs. Dr Henderson-Smith stared with radioactive eyes. Then he threw open the window and roared, “Baker, my study. This instance!”

The boy dropped the snow he was fashioning for another missile and turned to face the noise.

“Yes, Sir,” he said meekly and moved to enter the building.

The headmaster closed the window and sat at his desk, dumbfounded. He had caught George Baker throwing snowballs in clear violation of the headmaster’s expressed instructions.

George Baker? Sixth-former and prefect. The boy was in the headmaster’s Latin class. He was among the brightest boys in the school and was destined to go up to one of the country’s top universities.

There was a timid knock on the heavy oak door of the study. Baker had arrived.

“Enter!” Dr Henderson-Smith bellowed. Slowly, the door inched open and a head appeared. It was a small head topped with short curly black hair. The face was flushed; possibly caused by freezing cold air; or possibly because its owner, one George Baker, knew he was in serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed.

“Don’t dawdle boy!” Dr Henderson-Smith was incapable of speaking at a normal volume. “Close the door, you are letting the warmth escape.”

Baker edged his way into the room, closed the door behind him and halted, unsure what to do next.

He eyed the headmaster resplendent in his academic gown, seated behind a huge oak desk. The boy had never been in this room before. There had been no reason for him to visit. Particularly not for the purpose that had brought him today. Baker found the dense oak panelling intimidating. The room was gloomy even during bright sunny days, but now, in the bleak mid-winter, it felt like the inside of a cave.

“Stand there boy!” the headmaster pointed very deliberately to a point on a worn rug in front of his desk. Generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet on this spot. It was the first phase of a ritual played out over possibly hundreds of years at St Francis. This was where every sorrowful boy stopped and stood, head bowed, to await his fate.

The second phase was the “jawing.” The headmaster berated the woeful boy for his misbehaviours. Dr Henderson-Smith had perfected his own style: pomposity. He aimed his steely eyes at Baker like a weapon.

“Were you not in att-end-ance at morn-ing ass-emb-er-ley yes-ter-day morn-er-ing?” the headmaster strung out every syllable for dramatic effect. This way, he believed, he struck terror into his boys.

Baker listened confused. When Dr Henderson-Smith spoke this way it could be difficult to follow what he was saying.

“Well, Baker?”

The eighteen-year-old sixth-former took a stab at a reply.

“Yes, Sir.” It was not a detailed response, but the boy hoped it would do in the circumstances.

“Pah!” It was an explosion. Air rushed through the headmaster’s lips. His snowy white moustache bristled; his eyebrows knotted. The outrage he felt was intense.

“And, yet!” Dr Henderson-Smith was barely in control. “And yet, you saw fit to disobey my clear instructions on the throwing of snowballs!”  The headmaster was speaking more clearly now, but Baker was unsure if this was a rhetorical question. Was he supposed to answer?

He chose silence. He stared down at his feet and let his headmaster continue his denunciation.

“Never in my whole life as a headmaster,” he lied, “have I ever come across such wilful disobedience as this Baker. Never.”

Dr Henderson-Smith slapped the palm of his right hand on the desktop, startling young Baker who was intently studying the pattern on the rug.

“What do you have to say for yourself boy?”

Baker’s heart pounded. What could he say? He wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

“Well!” the headmaster screeched. He genuinely could not understand what Baker had been thinking.

“Sorry, Sir.” It was all he could think to say. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

“Pah!” It was another explosion of indignation. Sorry, the headmaster thought to himself. You soon will be.

“You leave me no choice, Baker.”

The boy raised his head. His grey-blue eyes shone as he watched the headmaster heave himself from his chair and pace the study. His destination was a corner cupboard. It was unlocked and within seconds the headmaster was rummaging round inside. His body blocked the teenager’s view, but he could hear a distinct rattling within.

Seconds later, Dr Henderson-Smith withdrew a curve-handled cane. Baker had seen many of these in the past; St Francis was that kind of school. But he had never before been on the receiving end of one. The headmaster looked attentively at the cane in his hands; as if seeing it for the first time. He murmured to himself and thoughtfully he flexed it between both hands. It was a little over three feet long and no thicker than a pencil.

Baker gawked from a distance. As school canes went it did not look especially vicious, he thought. He had seen longer and thicker ones. But, what this caning novice did not know was that in expert hands even a short thin cane could be made to deliver an excruciating sting. Dr Henderson-Smith was such an expert.

The headmaster turned to face the boy. He swished the cane through the air. If the swoosh! that it made was intended to intimidate the sixth-former it worked. For the first time that afternoon Baker wondered if disobedience had been such a good idea.

“Take you blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.”

Baker wanted to comply with the order, but his fingers didn’t want to work. Was it the cold or his nerves, he wasn’t quite sure.

Eventually, the jacket was in place.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Stand in front of my desk.”

Baker had never been caned in his life, but he had heard enough tales from school friends to know that in a moment he would be bent across the desk, with his bum in the air to allow the headmaster to thwack six-of-the-best across the seat of his trousers. It would hurt like blazes. He expected that. That was after all the point of it all.

“Lower your trousers.”

Baker had not expected that and the pleading look in his eyes betrayed his feeling. He stood rooted.

“Lower your trousers boy!” the headmaster repeated, a little louder this time.

Still Baker could not move.

“If you do not submit yourself to corporal punishment, I shall contact your father and tell him you are suspended from school. Do you wish me to do that?” The headmaster spoke slowly and deliberately.

He hoped it would not come to that. What on Earth would Mr Baker make of the situation? His eighteen-year-old son in the headmaster’s study refusing to take a beating. His son who had never given a moment’s trouble before. He had never needed caning before; never been given detention; never been set lines. He had probably never been admonished for bad behaviour in his life.

“One last time Baker. Lower your trousers.”

Sweat from the boy’s palms transferred to the belt as with shaking hands he struggled to loosen it. He could feel blood racing through his body at great speed as he pulled the buttons of his trousers loose, exposing the white Y-front underpants beneath.

The mid-grey trousers slipped down to his knees. He waited for the next instruction. Dr Henderson-Smith had developed a cruel streak in his years as a headmaster. The youngster standing in front of him was terrified. Dear God, the boy would be thinking, please don’t make me take down my underpants. The headmaster waited a moment and then waited some more.

“Lift your pullover and shirt clear of your bottom and bend over the desk.” He tapped the cane gently across the hard oak desktop in case there was any doubt.

Even though blood coursed through his body, it drained from Baker’s face, making him look ghoulish.

The boy adjusted his clothing exposing a flat hairless stomach and stretched his arms out ahead of him, gripping the desk top with both hands and thrusting his bottom out.

“Not like that,” the headmaster was easily irritated when a boy did not present himself properly for a caning. “Right over. Flat on your stomach.”

Baker eased forward. It was a huge desk and it was a stretch for him to reach the far edge with his hands. Unsure what to do with his arms, he folded them and tried to bury his head.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there,” the headmaster barked. “Do not move them and at no point try to protect yourself with your hands.”

Baker did as instructed. Hands on head worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable stance to take. Comfortable for now, but what happened next would be far from that.

Thinking about it later, Baker tried to imagine the scene. He was stretched across a huge oak desk; his trousers now at his ankles, revealing long, slim, slightly hairy legs. His shirt and pullover was pushed up and his midriff was bare. It was a cold room but he could feel the heat from the roaring open fire against his naked flesh. His white cotton underpants fitted snugly once the headmaster had tugged them tight against his buttocks.

His face was pressed down into the old oak desk. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify; probably some kind of polish.

He waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr Henderson Smith a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baker imagined, the headmaster preparing himself, flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the headmaster laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

Baker’s mouth opened and closed. “Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being exhaled. The boy tightened his grip on his entwined fingers and pressed down on the top of his head.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. That got Baker yelping. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baker had expected. How could anyone take six strokes like this? Then, he panicked. Six? It was to be six wasn’t it? The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff. Would it be more? Please God, no.

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. Dr Henderson-Smith was giving it some beef. Each stroke had been an almighty swipe; he could have been beating a carpet. This one had the boy’s feet marching up and down on the spot. His bum felt swollen. He desperately wanted to jump up and rub away.

“Oh, no!” Baker thought it but did not say it aloud. Dr Henderson-Smith had taken hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. “Please, no, don’t pull them down.”

He bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to beg for mercy. But, he need not worry. The headmaster pulled the waistband of the Y-fronts away from the boy’s back to get a full view of his bare buttocks. He was inspecting the damage done so far.

What he saw were three deep red marks, across both cheeks, almost parallel to one another. A thick welt had formed where two of the strokes had landed nearly in the same place. If he struck that area again, it would surely bleed, he thought.

The headmaster was not a sadist. He believed in corporal punishment; not in torture. A caning should be well laid on, especially if the body on the receiving end was a senior boy, or a recidivist, a repeat offender. Intense pain should be inflicted and there should be marks that would stay for days, a reminder of the penalty for bad behaviour.

Dr Henderson-Smith did not wish to leave Baker’s buttocks bloodied, so for number four he took aim lower down, away from the danger area. It struck at the sensitive “sit spot,” where the cheeks met the thighs. That one had Baker hollering. Tears flowed. He head-butted the desk; he marched his feet up and down and twisted his hips and bottom; but none of it helped. The agony was intense and it was not going away any time soon.

Four strokes had been delivered in a carefully timed sequence. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse so the full force of a stroke could be felt before the next was sent crashing home. The final two were delivered in quick succession, and at intense speed. Whack-whack. The whippy rattan bounced off the tight cotton-covered buttocks. It sounded like two pistol shots echoing around the ancient study.

George Baker thought he might faint. His scorched bottom felt like the headmaster had forced him to sit in the open fire. When the headmaster delivered the final cut to the boy he rested the cane on the desktop and waited for the final throaty scream to recede. For what seemed an age neither the headmaster nor the thrashed boy spoke or moved.

The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of George Baker, still bent across the desk.

Dr Henderson-Smith brushed his hand across the boy’s shoulder. “You may get up now,” he said softly.

Unsteadily, Baker lifted himself off the desk. His backside felt twice its normal size. He rubbed gently and even through the cotton underpants he could feel at least two distinct deep weals. The surface of his bum felt hard, like leather.

Tears still trickled from his eyes, but he was in control of himself now. Gingerly, he pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He could not bear to look at the headmaster. He wanted to get out of the study without delay.

While Baker struggled into his blazer, Dr Henderson-Smith reached into the drawer of his desk, extracted the punishment book and entered the details.

“Sign,” he pushed the book and a ball-point pen across the desk. The headmaster wanted this to end swiftly too.

“You are dismissed.”

Dr Henderson-Smith stood at the study window perplexed and watched Baker walk through the quadrangle and out of the school gates.

Twenty minutes later at home in his cold bedroom George Baker inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his bottom was tender to touch. It might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on a hard dining room chair at tea time.

So, he thought, that’s what it felt like to get the cane. It would have been a pity to have gone through his whole school career at St FIGS without knowing. He picked up the Football Monthly, eased himself down on the bed and flicked through its pages.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

Other St Francis Grammar School stories you might like

New boy at school

Kevin revisits his old school

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Run

z used twosome college jocks

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Brother Sebastian grew impatient. It was cold and starting to rain. Soon it would be dark. Where were those two boys? The others had returned ages ago.

Brother Sebastian paced around the carpark. He paused and looked at his watch. He would give it another five minutes before he informed the headmaster. Where were they? He hoped they had not come to harm. Would the police have to be informed? What would their parents say?

The seconds hand on his watch crawled. Three more minutes then he would give up.

Then he saw them turning a corner in the street: two sixth-formers dressed in physical training kit; white shorts and green-and-gold singlet, the colours of St Francis Independent Grammar School.

“Come on boys!” he barked angrily; although inside he felt intense relief: not that the boys were back safely, rather that he would not have any awkward explaining to do to Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster.

It had started as just a routine physical training class. Twenty-two boys had set off on a road run; two miles around the streets of town. There was nothing to it; even the most non-sporting of the boys, and there were many of them in the sixth-form, could cope with that.

“Allison, Howard! Where have you been!” Brother Sebastian shouted across the car park as the boys passed through the school gates. But before they could answer, he shouted, “Get in the changing room now, both of you. This instance.”

Sorrowfully, the two eighteen year olds lumbered into the building.

Moments later Brother Sebastian was pacing the room while two sheepish teenagers stood arms at their side in acute embarrassment.

“Why has it taken you so long to complete the route? Where have you been? What have you been up to?”

Alan Howard, the tallest of the pair, blushed. If Brother Sebastian discovered the truth they would be in the most frightful trouble.

“Well answer me. Allison? Howard?”

But both boys stared at their feet; not daring to catch the Brother’s eye.

“Doh!” Brother Sebastian was losing his temper. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Where have you been?”

Then, John Allison made a fatal mistake. He raised his head, looked at Brother Sebastian, and simply said, “Sorry, Brother.”

That was enough. Brother Sebastian sniffed the air. What! Beer. He could smell alcohol on the boy’s breath.

He exploded, “Have you two been drinking!” Then he answered his own question, “You have! Beer! You’ve been drinking beer. I can’t believe this.”

Brother Sebastian was a young man himself, only twenty-five years old, but when he got into a paddy he could reprimand a boy like a schoolmaster twice his age.

His open, some might say cherubic, face turned puce as he bawled the boys out. What stupidity. What irresponsibility. What would their parents say?

John Allison’s eyes moistened as he desperately tried to stop the tears from flowing. It would be bad enough to blub in front of the Brother but if his friends got to hear about him crying like a six year old because the Brother scolded him, he would never hear the end of it.

“Darn it,” the Brother’s anger was intense. “Both of you go take a shower and then when I want you to dry off and return to me wearing only your towels.”

John began to mouth a protest, but catching sight of the Brother’s fiercely-burning eyes he thought better of it. He had only recently joined the sixth-form at St Francis, but in the short time he had been a pupil he had discovered a boy must never, repeat never, argue with a master.

Miserably the two boys stripped off their shorts and singlets and stepped into the showers.

No words were spoken between the two boys. They were great friends and had shared an adventure that afternoon; when word spread around the sixth-form they would become mini-heroes.

It had been a simple plan. For weeks the sixth-formers had been daring one another to do it. It was the kind of dare adolescent boys make all the time. Mostly, though sanity prevails and they come to their senses in time.

When they were next forced on the road run, someone should stop off at the pub for a pint of beer mid-way round. It was that simple; and anyone with an ounce of sense could see it was a pretty pointless thing to do. It was not as if they were getting one over on the schoolmasters; they were not gaining an advantage. It was not as if they were stealing the answers ahead of the examinations. Now, that would be something.

So, Alan and John decided that afternoon would be when they made their names. The King’s Head pub was only one street off the route, so no major detour was needed. It was the middle of the afternoon and the bar was almost deserted.

The barman, busy drying glasses, looked up in amusement as he heard the door swing open and saw two teenagers in sports kit daring one another to enter.

“Good afternoon gents. What’ll it be?”

Trevor the barman could not give a stuff. He saw straight away from the colours of their singlets they were from the local grammar school. They might be eighteen and legally entitled to drink and then again they might not.

“Two pints of bitter please,” the taller of the two boys said with a confidence he did not really feel.

Wordlessly, Trevor pulled the pints and set them down on the bar. He had a fair idea what was going on. It was some kind of dare by the schoolboys.

“Do you want me to sign a beer mat for you?”

The puzzlement on the boys’ faces gave Trevor much joy.

“There’s no point in doing this unless you can prove to the lads that you’ve been here, is there?”

Oh. The boys understood.

It took longer to drink a pint of beer than they expected and then with bellies full of gas they found they could not run without getting a terrible stitch.

Trevor smiled to himself. They would get found out for sure. Did they still whack the kid’s              arses with a cane at the grammar school, he wondered.

Good job if they did: he hated them all.

….

Brother Sebastian paced the changing room waiting for the boys to finish their showers. What could he do with the pair? They deserved the most severe punishment. He had only been at St Francis’s since the beginning of term, but he knew it was a traditional school and that meant traditional discipline.

After five minutes, showered and dried, Allison and Howard emerged from the shower room. As instructed each boy had a large white bath towel tied around the waist.

“Stand there, both of you,” Brother Sebastian pointed to a spot in the middle of the changing room.

He paced in front of them. “You know what this means? I have to report you to the headmaster and he will flog you severely. He might even suspend you both. I can’t let this go.” He threw up his arms in exasperation.

“Please don’t do that Brother Sebastian. Our parents will find out. Please, we’re sorry!” Alan jabbered.

Brother Sebastian had some sympathy. The boys had behaved irresponsible and must be punished. But the final school examinations were not far away; did they deserve to be suspended? What could he do?

A heavy rubber plimsoll applied with great force across the backsides would be the solution.

“Ok, boys. You don’t want to be suspended?”

At last, a ray of hope. The boys brightened up. “What do we have to do, Brother Sebastian?” asked Alan.

The Brother moved a chair out into the middle of the room. Brother Sebastian had been no stranger to discipline himself when he had been younger. Even through his teen years wilful disobedience had been punished by a trip across his father’s knee for a stinging session with a flat backed hairbrush on his bared bottom. He recalled those sessions all too well. The hot sting of those spankings had taught him to behave.

“Boys; here’s the deal. You violated a very important rule. It is forbidden to visit pubs or drink alcohol. You deliberately broke the rule and you intended to make a fool of me and of the school.”

John Allison tried to interject, “Oh no Brother.” It was not true that they tried to make a fool of the Brother. That had never been the intention. They liked Brother Sebastian a lot; none of the boys would want to humiliate him.

“Quiet,” Brother Sebastian was getting into his stride. “But, if you accept my punishment, we’ll forget about this little escapade of yours.”

Brother Sebastian fell silent. Now, it was time for the boys to speak.

John went first, “How do you intend to punish us, Brother,” he asked, but he could see the chair in the middle of the floor was a clue to the answer.

Brother Sebastian felt himself begin to blush, “Both of you, right here, right now, take a good hard spanking. You drop those towels, bend over this chair and take your licking. Then we forget about this. Well, what will it be?”

Both sets of jaws dropped. Eyes grew big as saucers.

“A…a spanking, Brother Sebastian?” John Allison was shaking his head in disbelief.

“You heard me. Or, you can go to the headmaster, first thing in the morning. And then it’s a flogging and a suspension.”

For a minute they stood still, thinking it over. Alan Howard knew that if he was suspended his parents were sure to find out. They were a traditional Christian family and he would get a severe thrashing from his father. Whatever he chose: Brother Sebastian’s punishment slippering or the headmaster’s suspension, Alan would end up with a very sore backside. He knew from painful experiences the severity of his father’s beatings. However hard Brother Sebastian spanked him it would not be in the same league as a whipping from his father. And, if the Brother punished him there would be no reason for his father to know. The Brother’s offer was the best offer on the table.

Finally he spoke, “Our parents won’t find out, right?”

“That’s right. It ends here. So decide. I don’t have all night and you boys have to get home.”

The boys looked at each other. Alan turned toward Brother Sebastian and shrugged. “I’m in,” he said, lifting his chin in an act of teenage bravado. “How do you want me?”

“Alan!” John squealed.

“Oh, John, don’t be such a baby,” said Alan. “I’m ready, Brother.”

All colour drained from John’s face. It was all right for Alan, he thought, he was always getting his arse whacked at home; he was used to it. He had never been spanked in his life. Before he came to St Francis he had been at a progressive school; corporal punishment was unheard of. And, it would never occur to his father to spank him, no matter how much of a brat John could be sometimes.

It took the Brother only seconds to fetch the slipper from the cupboard. Alan’s eyes shone at the sight of the plimsoll. It must be size twelve at least. Did it belong to a giant? Did the brother intend to hit him with that? The heavy sole would smash his bare arse to pieces. Perhaps, this spanking was not going to be as easy to take as he had hope.

“Come over here stand facing the chair,” Brother Sebastian said, pointing at the chair’a wooden seat. Alan moved over with slow steps to stand at the Brother’s right. “Ok, Howard, drop the towel.”

Alan let the towel slip to the floor. Any doubts that this eighteen-year-old schoolboy was anything but a young adult were dispelled. He put both hands at his crotch. He was well-built and stood at nearly six feet tall. His chest was hairless and in the cold of the changing room his nipples hardened. He had long legs and a slender torso with slim hips, but a cute apple-cheeked bottom prominently set off from his long legs. Brother Sebastian aimed to thoroughly redden that pert bum to teach this young man a lesson.

“Over the chair,” he said.

Alan bent forward slightly and took a firm grip on both sides of the chair’s seat. “Further down, legs apart. Give me something to aim at,” Brother Sebastian seemed in a jovial mood as he pushed Alan’s shoulders lower so that the teenager’s bottom stuck out at an enticing angle to receive his spanking.

“Ready, Howard?”

“Yes, Brother,” he squeaked, tensing his body.

“You’ll be getting fifty swats with this plimsoll. It would help if you counted.”

He raised his hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a loud smack! Alan hissed with an intake of breath. Smack! the Brother spanked the other cheek and the boy lifted a leg off the floor.

“How many?” demanded Brother Sebastian. “I don’t hear counting.”

“Ow…two,” Alan gasped.

Brother Sebastian launched into a rhythmic smacking of Alan’s bouncing bottom, landing smacks on alternating cheeks at a rate of about one every two seconds or so. He carefully covered the full expanse of the teenager’s backside, working from the top of his bottom to the lush underside, not missing an inch. Sometimes he landed crisp smacks right across the divide, right on the sit spot.

John Allison stood, his eyes transfixed on his pal’s once creamy white buttocks, now rapidly turning a crimson red. He had a perfect view up the teenager’s crack and was surprised how hairy it was. Absurdly considering the circumstances, he wondered if his own bum-hole was as hairy.

Alan yipped softly but kept the count, bending his knees and stamping his feet on the ground, wincing, opening and closing his eyes, flexing his wriggling buttocks as the spanks landed. At the count of fifty, the Brother stopped. Alan’s bottom was beet red. It looked like two stoplights on a white background.

Brother Sebastian let him up.

Alan hastily grabbed his towel and covered himself, only to find he could not cover up and rub the agonising throbbing in his bottom at the same time.

“Ok, Allison. Your turn.”

Utterly humiliated in his nakedness, John took Alan’s place. He was shorter than his good friend. Where Alan Howard was tall and lean, John Allison was stockier. His legs were covered in light downy hair, but his buttocks were almost completely bare.

Brother Sebastian rested his plimsoll on the boy’s back and for a moment allowed his right palm to caress John’s cheeks: first the left and then the right. The touch was so gentle that the eighteen-year-old hardly realised it was happening.

John’s heart was racing; he could not be sure he could take fifty hard whacks with the giant’s slipper. Whatever happened, he must control himself. His pal Alan had taken his own spanking well. John must not let himself down.

In his nakedness, head down he had a perfect view of his own cock and balls dangling in front of his face. His face flushed in humiliation. Not only were his privates visible to his pal and his punisher, he knew they would also have a tremendous view up his crack

Brother Sebastian gripped the slipper tightly, raised it and brought it crashing down across the left globe. The teenager’s feet stamped on the floor, his legs fluttering. He did not have his friend’s experience of being beaten and could not take the whacking stoically.

The sharp spanks rang out, echoing off the concrete walls in the enclosed changing room. John yelped and had to be reminded several times to keep count. The Brother’s plimsoll rose and fell, splatting into the hairless mounds at a steady tempo.

Time and time again the slipper was applied to John’s seat. He wriggled, he whimpered, he yelled and finally he broke down and sobbed as he lay across his tormentor’s lap. The eighteen-year-old youth was soon reduced to a blubbering five year old.

“Youch … oh, youch, Brother! Uh, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two … owwww!”

Finally, Brother Sebastian stopped and gently patted the scorched buttocks.

“Both of you stand in front of me and turn around.”

Both boys had been duly punished, Brother Sebastian could see as he inspected his handiwork. Two sets of glowing red bottom cheeks attested to the fact that he had meted out very thorough spankings.

“Now face me,” he said. “Never do that again, do you understand? Next time it will be a visit to the headmaster’s study. Now get dressed and go home.”

The boys gathered the towels, dressed and left in a hurry.

Whew! thought Alan Howard. I need a drink.

Twenty minutes later at home Alan slipped into the bathroom and eased down his trousers and pants. It still hurt like crazy and his bottom glowed like a cigarette in the dark. Brother Sebastian had spanked him hard; he had practically been crying at the end. He looked over his shoulder, his buttocks were still red and it burned. Still, that was better than anyone finding out. He reached for some cold cream.

“Alan?” His mother burst in.

In the mirror Alan saw his mother staring in disbelief at his inflamed bottom.

“Alan! What have you been getting up to?” She did not wait for an answer; she knew it already. “Wait until your father gets home!”

The teenager confessed all to his father. He told him about the road run, the pub visit with John Allison; getting caught and then the incident with Brother Sebastian.

His father was insistent and wanted all the gory details and he got them; right down to the fifty whacks with the plimsoll while bent naked across the old wooden chair.

“Disgraceful! How could you behave like this? What have I said about drinking?” Alan made no reply; he knew his father’s questions were rhetorical. Nothing he said would change what was going to happen next.

His father blustered and lectured Alan for at least fifteen minutes, but the boy turned his mind off long before the diatribe was finished. Can we not just get on with this, he thought.

Eventually, his father dashed from the room, only to return moments later with a long stout, but very whippy, cane in his hand.

He swished it through the air as if testing its effectiveness. It was an unnecessary gesture; Mr Howard had whacked this very cane many times across the collective backsides of his five sons. He knew how to inflict the maximum pain possible with it.

“Up!” It was an imperious command and Alan knew better than to disobey his father. He sprung up from his seat and stood uncomfortably in front of his father while he wobbled the cane threateningly in front of his son’s face.

“Trousers, pants down!”

“But, dad, I’ve already been slippered,” Alan whimpered. But, he did not expect pity and none came.

“Over the back of the sofa and be quick about it.”

The boy obeyed and within seconds, his trousers and underpants at his knees, he was stretching his firm muscular buttocks tightly across the plush leather sofa and stretching down to grip the seat cushion on the far side.

His father eyed his son’s bared buttocks. The round cheeks were scarlet with dark crimson blotches of pain. Alan’s backside still throbbed from the earlier spanking, but he was too proud to beg his father for mercy.

The first stroke caught Alan unawares. The pain soon followed, it was excruciating! His flesh felt as if it had been blowtorched.

The second stroke followed rapidly and hurt his already scorched teenage flesh badly. The agony of the stroke reignited the pain from the fifty whacks with the plimsoll he had endured only an hour previously.

“No, Sir!! Oh God, noooooo, Sir!!”

Alan struggled to retain his composure and his submissive position. His head was spinning and he was feeling dizzy. He could not be certain he would not faint at any moment from the intense pain.

His father paused and sliced the cane through the air a few times before whipping it down with increased force across the very centre of his son’s bottom. The boy let out a scream and held on to the seat cushion as if his very life depended upon it. Never before, despite the numerous thrashings he had received from his father, had he experienced pain quite like this.

Four more sickening strokes lashed down hard across Alan’s bottom. Mr Howard was a hard, accurate caner. Although he was forty-one he had been in the military in his younger days and had kept up his physical fitness levels.

Alan yelled out in torment as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw and bleeding profusely from the relentless bombardment.

As soon as the last of twelve strokes had been given, Alan shot bolt upright and tried to grasp his bottom. His face was a mess, covered in snot and tears. But the mess of his face was nothing compared to his buttocks. Blood oozed from what appeared to be dozens of small cuts, giving his cheeks the appearance of raw hamburger meat.

His father stood and watched impassively as his son gingerly pulled up first his underpants and then his trousers. He struggled to get them over his throbbing buttocks. Had he imagined it, but his arse seemed to have swollen to at least twice its natural size.

Alan zipped and buttoned up as his father came back to life. The room was spinning rapidly, but Alan just about managed to stay upright as he endured another lecturer from his father. There was something about not drinking alcohol and another thing about disgracing the family, but Alan could not be sure.

At last his father dismissed him and sent him to his room. Every step was agony and he bounced out of the room and crawled up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Calmly, his father replaced the cane in its resting place in a drawer.

“I’m going to telephone John Allison’s father to tell him what happened at school today,” Mr Howard told his wife. “I know he’ll want to give his boy a sound thrashing.”

John’s dad had not expected the phone call. He listened impassively and made mental notes of the details of his son’s behaviour and the punishment he had received.

Struggling to control his anger, he stormed to the foot of the stairs. “John! Come down here please.”

John, was in his room. He could not stop himself crying. The pain had eased and as long as he did not press into the buttocks of his cheeks, he was all right. It was the humiliation of the naked spanking that upset him most.

John loved his father, but the evident anger in the man’s voice petrified him. What was he going to do? Alan had said he expected a thrashing from his father; was his own dad going to whip him too?

Tearfully, John descended the stairs to find his dad in the living room. He had never seen the man looking so distressed before.

“I’ve had a call from Alan’s dad. Is it true?

Uncontrollable gulps choked the boy and his father held out his arms to clutch the boy to his breast.

Yes, it was all true. Between sobs, Alan told the whole story of the pub visit and his encounter with Brother Sebastian.

The father and his almost-adult son stood together hugging. Eventually, the boy was calmed by the loving embrace of his father.

Mr Allison helped the boy settle down on the sofa, before taking a deep breath.

“Fucking pervert! Making teenage boys strip naked and then spanking their bare backsides!”

He strode into the hallway. “I’m phoning the police,” he said, picking up the telephone.

“No, dad, no!” John chased after his father. “Please dad. No! Please don’t do it!”

Other stories you might like

 

Sam’s caning

University encounter

Bend over my knee for a birching

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Murph in the Headmaster’s Study

z used drawing cane picture quelch Mag no 6

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

Murph was bent over the desk, awaiting his fate. He had been told to grip the far edge of the desk, so he was stretched across it. His school blazer, shirt and white vest had ridden up his back. His grey school trousers and white Y-fronts were down at his ankles.

Getting into position meant bending over and presenting his bared backside for a caning even though he was a grown-up young man of eighteen.

In front of him, Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, was rummaging through his punishment cabinet intent on finding just the right stick to take the bully’s arse off.

Eventually he took cold of the Malacca, a fearsome specimen. It was no longer or thicker than the rattans among his vast collection; but it was denser. And every three or four inches along its length were notches which, the headmaster knew from the rod’s satisfactory use in the past would raise serious wounds on a boy’s buttocks. A deep red welt would raise immediately the Malacca connected with flesh, then within minutes deep purple bruises would cover the entire area of the globes. The marks would stay for days, more than a week sometimes and the boy on the receiving end of such a thrashing would find it painful to sit for many hours. Some areas of the buttocks would remain tender to the touch for days.

Yes, Dr Henderson-Smith was convinced this was the cane to deal with young Murphy.

Mick Murphy, naturally known across the school as ‘Murph’, was from the town’s growing Irish stock. He was typical of the breed; his head was oblong shaped and his face looked like a potato. His body was built like a navvy’s and covered in hair. The good doctor had never before seen such hairy buttocks on a teenager.

Murph shuddered in anticipation of the ordeal to come as the headmaster moved into position behind him, and swished the cane menacingly through the air, adding considerably to the young man’s trepidation.

Dr Henderson-Smith had no sympathy with the boy now prone across his leather-topped desk. He was a bully and an extortionist. For many months the lout had been terrorising junior boys and taking their lunch money. Murphy’s was a simple plan. At St Francis Independent Grammar School the prefects were not allowed to punish the younger boys outright; instead they distributed punishment slips for breaches of good behaviour. If a boy collected three such slips it meant an automatic caning from his housemaster.

Murphy dished out the slips as if they were confetti; but he would ‘let a boy off’ if he coughed up his lunch money; which they always would do. The cash kept Murphy in smokes and paid for the ‘girlie’ magazines that were easily available from certain newsagents in town.

It went on for months: perhaps, the only question to ask is why he did not get caught sooner. It was only by chance that Mr Tooke, a junior master, looking through the chemistry lab window saw the brute attack the tiny eleven-year-old boy. Albright rolled in a ball on the ground to protect himself from the flailing legs of his attacker.

That was how Murphy found himself knocking on the sturdy oak door of the headmaster’s study.

‘Enter!’

Murph gulped and entered the study closing the door behind him, the desk in front of him was clear. The headmaster was a bit of a drama queen. Calmly, he told Murph that his behaviour was unacceptable.

“You’re going to be sound-er-ly th-rashed, my boy, and that means a prop-er can-ing,” he rolled every syllable around his tongue, fondly believing this would drive terror into any misbehaving teenager’s heart.

“Move over to my desk, drop your trousers and underpants and spread yourself across it, gripping the sides. This will hurt and is intended to.”

Murph had expected this. Although he had never been sent to the headmaster’s study before, he had heard tales from other boys who had. His friend Mitchell had been caned last week; he said it hurt something awful. Felt like a red hot poker against his skin.

In a trance, Murph unbuckled his belt, unfastened his trousers, pulled the zip and let them slide off his hips and down his thighs. As he did as he was told he dreaded what was to come next.

“Underpants too, boy!” It was a sharp command. The headmaster was not about to have his time wasted by this sixth-former.

Still Murph hesitated; he really did not want to expose his bare flesh to the headmaster.

“Please don’t make me come over there and take them down for you!” Dr Henderson-Smith would have too. He found that many of his pupils were far from stoical when the time came for a caning. In generations past it was a matter of honour for a schoolboy to present himself gallantly for a beating, but many modern boys lacked the courage to do this.

With shaking hands and scarlet face, Murph stuck his thumbs under the waistband of his underpants and dragged them to his knees, displaying his genitals. Quickly, he cupped them in his hands to hide them from the headmaster’s view.

“Stupid boy! I am not the least bit interested in your private parts,” the headmaster thought, but did not say aloud. It was the another part of the boy’s anatomy that interested the good doctor.

He tapped the wooden desk with his finger. “Bend over.”

Murph bent right over it, clutching the far edge and offering his bottom most submissively for what was to be a thrashing of a lifetime.

There was no ceremony with the headmaster. He had a job to do, no a duty, to perform and he got on with it.

The boy felt the cane rest on his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he felt was the cane land on his bare backside and an intense line of fire erupted across his buttocks, This was Murph’s first bare-bottomed caning and the eighteen-year-old screamed. He had never felt anything quite like it. He was hot all over, but his bottom was definitely hotter still and rapidly overheating.

It might have been fairer not to give such a vicious first stroke, but the headmaster was in no mood to show any leniency, and had delivered it with every ounce of effort at his disposal

After a slight pause, a second stroke landed a little below where the first had marked him. Murph was astonished by the severity and intensity of the stripe. He felt flushed and humiliated to be fully dressed on his top half, but naked from the waist down.  Cold perspiration ran down his back.

“Please Sir!” Murph wailed. “Please Sir, I’m sorry!”

“Silence boy!” thundered the headmaster and cracked the cane down again. Strokes three onwards landed on the bare flesh, hurting, if possible, even more than the first one. By the fourth stroke, snot and tears were cascading down his huge face. The headmaster did not decrease his punishment one bit and was well satisfied with the boy sobbing on the desk in front of him.

The sixth stroke slashing across the base of Murph’s bottom, where it joins the thighs, was the final straw, causing him to yell out and sob loudly. His legs danced and thrashed about. He had never been in such pain, nor imagined that such pain was possible to survive.

With Murph still across the desk, the headmaster gave him a final warning about his behaviour before giving him permission to get dressed. As the teenager was dressing Dr Henderson-Smith replaced the cane in the cabinet and sat down before opening the punishment book. He wrote Murph’s name, the nature of the offence and details of the punishment inflicted. He noted with some satisfaction that this was the fifteenth entry in the book that month and it was still only the second week.

When instructed by the headmaster, Murph slowly pushed himself back on his elbows as he got unsteadily up. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk for a couple of moments before he got his balance.

Murph slowly pulled his underwear back up over his buttocks, unable to resist gently probing the damage with his fingers as he did so. He could feel the painful ridges that would be visible for quite some time to come. Finally he got his school trousers up and fastened, then stood, hands clenched at his side, in front of the headmaster, his hands gently massaging his throbbing backside and his eyes wet with tears. He signed his name in the punishment book with the lecture from the headmaster on his future behaviour and a warning that it would be worse if he ever came before him again on a similar offence, ringing in his ears.

Murph was dismissed and slowly he limped from the study his hands rubbing his buttocks and his eyes still moist with tears.

Picture credit: The Magnet

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

Other stories you might like

Untidy bathroom

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

Paying the rent

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

First Day At School

z used drawing cane SFIGS (63a)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

John Allison walked through the gates of St Francis Independent Grammar School for the first time as a pupil.

All around him boys were hurrying along, anxious not to be late.

“Hurry along you tykes,” a senior boy, obviously a prefect, called to a group of eight or nine young boys, who were some way off from the gate. “Gates are closing. You don’t want to be up for a bowing.”

The boys ran at fall pace and as the last one made it through the ornate gates, the prefect slammed them shut. Any boy who arrived now would have his name taken and could find himself up before his housemaster for a caning.

John stood unsure where he was supposed to go. For a moment he paused to take in the splendour. St Francis Grammar School, Brocklehurst, reputedly could trace its roots back to the 1700s. It certainly was a splendid old building, but not ancient. John had never seen anything quite like it. His previous school had been modern in all respects: the buildings, the curriculum, the attitude of teachers to their charges.

Seemingly hundreds of boys streamed into the building. They certainly didn’t look too modern in John’s eyes. All the boys in the first, second and third forms wore grey short trousers. John didn’t know any eleven- to fourteen-year-old boys in the real world who wore short trousers to school. If it had been said that the boys should wear short trousers at Calmbury, his previous school, the boys – and the teachers too – would have mocked the suggestion.

John surveyed his new schoolmates. He didn’t feel quite so absurd now wearing his green-and-gold-hooped school cap: everyone as far as the eye could see wore the strange headgear. His mother had laughed out loud when she read the school’s regulations and teased him unmercifully: school cap; white Y-front underpants (how would they know?); short-back-and-sides haircuts and Ha! Ha! Ha! six-of-the-best-for-you-young-man if you are naughty. And, no girls!

His father did not join in the fun. Even now, more than twenty-five years after he had left behind St Tom’s forever, he still resented the canings he and his fellow pupils had endured.

John hated the school uniform. His green school blazer with gold braiding around the edges shrieked of self-importance. At least, aged eighteen, he would not be forced to wear the short trousers.

St Francis had a fine academic record. 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. This was such be a contrast to Calmbury, also an independent school, but it had girls as well as boys and attitudes were so informal the pupils were not expected to wear school uniform and corporal punishment was unheard of.

“Excuse me.” John was approached by a short, stocky boy, about his own age.  “Are you by any chance Allison?” He seemed friendly and John was happy to confess his identity.

“I’ve been told to take you along to meet your form master. My name’s Anderson.”

And, with that he led John into the ancient building and his new life at St Francis.

His form master Mr Tatler gave him a lot of information about his lessons timetable and where the classrooms were. But, John couldn’t take it in. Tatler (the boys, John later discovered, called him ‘Tatters’) was dressed in a formal academic gown and resting nearby on a desk was his mortar board cap.

John didn’t know how to react; it was as if he had stepped into a time machine and travelled back; how many years? He had never seen a schoolmaster dressed like this. He assumed all the teachers, or ‘masters’ as he had better get used to calling them, wore something similar. He had never seen anything remotely like this in his life, except perhaps once when he had been a small boy and he went exploring in the attic at his granddad’s home. He had found a pile of old comics; the Magnet and the Gem he thought they were called. They weren’t very good, they were full of words with few pictures, but the drawings he did see were of schoolmasters dressed like Tatters.

Anderson was a good sort and he soon took John under his wing. At lunchtime he was given the ‘grand tour.’ And, ‘grand’ the school certainly was: ivy-covered walls; mullioned-windows in the library; a ‘clock tower’ with narrow stone steps leading to the headmaster’s study.

“You don’t ever want to go up there,” Anderson said cheerfully. “It can mean only one thing.”

He laughed at John’s puzzled expression. “A bowing from Dr Henderson-Smith,” he laughed as merrily he swiped his right arm through the air in parody.

John blanched. He was silent, unsure what he was expected to say in response. His mother had mocked the corporal punishment regime at St Francis, but John was not so offhand. This school gave him the creeps. Anyhow, he knew he was only nine months away from taking his final examinations and leaving school for good. He would just keep his head down. Besides, he was eighteen and far too old to be summoned to the doctor’s study for a ‘bowing.’

The tour continued through the passageways (as ‘corridors’ were called at St Francis) of the three main buildings.

“And around here is where the housemasters’ studies are.” They turned a corner into a long passageway, almost bumping into four boys standing in a line, facing the wall.

“Ha!” Anderson, chuckled and called over to the miserable looking youngsters. “Hello there! What’s this, the ‘lunchtime line-up’?”

Suddenly, behind him, he heard footsteps. It was Mr Durrant, the housemaster of Treacher’s.

“Quick!” Anderson grabbed John by the sleeve of his blazer. “Let’s go, we don’t want to get caught here.”

But, Mr Durrant was in no hurry; he had enjoyed a satisfying meal and was on his way to his study for what had become known among the boys as the ‘lunchtime line-up.’

Every day, almost without fail, one or more boys would be sent to him for a caning. St Francis Grammar was a traditional school and corporal punishment was regularly used. There were rules and if a boy got caught breaking them, he was punished, and very often that meant a beating.

One of Mr Durrant’s duties, and he took it very seriously, was to be impose discipline. That day he expected to find four boys waiting nervously outside his study and as he turned the corner he was not disappointed. They were an assorted bunch; two eleven-year-old juniors dressed in short trousers; most unusually, a prefect; and then Anthony Brewer, a fifth-form rebel who was becoming a regular visitor.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he always called the boys he was about to thrash, “gentlemen.”

“Stand up straight all of you. Keep facing the wall.” The boys did as instructed, but the housemaster detected some resentment from James Axford, the prefect. Well, if he did misbehave and break rules he shouldn’t be surprised that he was treated the same way as the first-form boys; in every respect.

Mr Durrant unlocked the door of the study and beckoning to the prefect, said, “Come with me Axford.”

Showing no enthusiasm, the eighteen-year-old prefect followed behind the gowned master. James Axford entered the study, splendid in his smart green blazer with gold braiding. He looked a little apprehensive as well he might; senior boys, particularly prefects, were expected to set an example to the younger pupils, not to break the rules themselves.

“Stand there, in front of my desk.”

It was a large room, gloomy, with dark oak bookshelves around three walls. A large desk, also made from oak, dominated the room and there were a number of small wooden chairs. Two large padded armchairs were arranged around a small coffee table. The chairs were called ‘comfortable chairs,’ but to the boys who bent across their backs routinely during the lunchtime visits they were far from comfortable. In the corner was a tall, thin, cupboard that housed the implements that were responsible for that discomfort: Mr Durrant’s vast collection of canes.

He sat behind his desk and surveyed the boy. Mr Durrant knew he should have sent the boy to the headmaster, but he was certain Dr Henderson-Smith would have given Axford a special thrashing because he was a senior boy and also withdrawn his prefect status. Mr Durrant thought that punishment was too harsh for Axford’s crime.

He had been spotted in town during school hours: the school uniform was very conspicuous. Mr Durrant suspected prefects sometimes left the school premises during their free periods: the only thing Axford did differently was to get caught.

He selected a longer, thicker whippy rattan cane from his cupboard.

James had been expecting this and had a speech rehearsed, “You can’t cane a prefect, Sir; it’s not allowed.”

The barrack-room lawyer! Mr Durrant was more amused than angry, but tried not to show it.

“Pardon?”

“Prefects aren’t allowed to be beaten. No prefect has ever been beaten, that is,” he trailed off a bit as he realised his housemaster was in no mood for this.

Mr Durrant knew Axford was both right and wrong; no prefect had been caned in recent memory, the boy would have the privilege to be the first in a very long time; but there was no rule that said he could not be beaten.

The housemaster was beginning to wish he had sent the brat to Dr Henderson-Smith. All he wanted was for Axford to bend over and take his Six and they could both move on.

Then he had an idea. “Take off your tie, Axford.”

The boy was genuinely puzzled by this order. “Tie, Sir?”

“Yes Axford, take off your prefect’s tie.”

The boy hesitated, trying to work out in his mind what was going on.

“Please do it now Axford, I have others waiting outside to visit me.”

Still unsure what this meant, the boy loosened his tie and pulled it from under his shirt collar.

He held it in his hand, wondering what he was meant to do now. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Hand me the tie, please.”

The housemaster took the tie and put it on his desk.

“Now, Axford, you are no longer a prefect. Please bend over that chair.”

James was indignant; he was to be beaten and lose his prefect’s status; just for being out of the school. The other guys did it all the time.

The housemaster swished his cane impatiently.

“The chair, Axford, the chair.”

James took a deep breath and stood close to the back of the armchair. He had been in this position before, but not for at least three years, when he had been caught smoking; it had been the first time he tried cigarettes and after the whacking he got then from Mr Durrant, it was also the last.

“Bend over please.”

James leaned forward and reached out to grasp the front of the seat cushion.

“Let’s have your bottom a little higher please.”

James had to stretch on tip toe before he satisfied his housemaster.

“Legs further apart.”

James screwed his eyes tight and gripped the cushion for dear life.

Mr Durrant whipped six stingers into the boy’s submissive buttocks: rat-tat-tat- rat-tat- tat. The strokes were a little more vigorous than he had originally intended and the cracks of his rattan cane against the tightly-stretched grey Terylene trousers rang around the room like machinegun fire.

James groaned as the whacks pounded into his buttocks, but stifled his desire to yelp out loud. He could feel moisture behind his eyes and prayed he would not cry; not at least until he was far away from the housemaster’s study and the boy standing outside waiting his turn.

Mr Durrant had not yet allowed Axford to stand. He put the cane away and watched the boy from a distance; Axford was breathing heavily and his head was so low he was almost kissing the seat cushion. The caning had hurt; Mr Durrant knew it but he also understood the importance the boys placed on their dignity, it would not matter how much agony the caning caused them, they would not want to let their punisher know.

The housemaster saw the boy wanted to get out of the study without delay, so he put him out of his misery.

“You can remove yourself Axford. You took that well.”

James stood and despite himself, his hands shot to the seat of his trousers to hold his throbbing buttocks tightly.

Mr Durrant pretended not to notice and turned to his desk and picked up the tie.

“Take this Axford, you are now reinstated as a prefect.”

Despite the agony in his buttocks and his original resentment, James was genuinely pleased to be restored to the prefecthood.

“Thank you very much, Sir.”

He signed the punishment book and Mr Durrant offered his right hand and they shook; like gentlemen do.

As he painfully shuffled towards the door, Mr Durrant called after him, “Ask the next boy to come in please.”

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

Name check

The troublesome lodger

The milk bottle thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

School, st francis independent grammar school,

 

The Padded Armchair

z used drawing armchair (1)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper.

He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper. It was as simple as that. It didn’t matter whether you were in the first form, or like Jack the Upper Sixth. He wasn’t alone. His friend Jenks had just been dealt with and Tony Wheeler was standing outside the room in the corridor waiting his turn.

Jack wasn’t a fool. In fact he was quite bright but he hated history and nothing Mr Hendry, the history master, did would change that. If he paid attention in class and read the text book he would pass his tests with ease.

But, he didn’t so here he was about to get a sore bum: again. It wasn’t the first time he had received corporal punishment and it wouldn’t be the last, it was that sort of school.

Jack looked across at Mr Hendry and only half listened to the lecture he was delivering. “Idle, blah blah; lazy. blah, blah.”

Mr Hendry wasn’t like most of the other masters at the school. He was only twenty-five and had a round open face that naturally liked to smile. Jack had seen Mr Hendry one weekend in town at a coffee shop. He was dressed in fashionable summer shorts with a flower-patterned shirt. He was with a young lady (was it his girlfriend, or wife even?) and they were laughing and joking and having fun. They seemed very relaxed in each other’s company. No one would have guessed he was a schoolmaster at crusty old St Francis Independent Grammar School.

Mr Hendry looked very different now. He was dressed in a dowdy checked sports jacket and big baggy dark grey trousers. And of course the traditional academic gown, the schoolmasters’ uniform at St Francis. Mr Hendry had learned a long time ago that masters did not smile, and he had perfected a sour expression that fell somewhere between a man who had both a pain in his stomach and a very unpleasant smell under his nose.

“Bend over the chair Wilks.”

Jack took a pace forward and eased himself into the soft padding of the chair. It was a huge leather chair with cushions at the back, the seat and even the arms. His body sank into the padding and his face rested on the seat. He put his hands forward and held on to the edge of the cushion and noticed there were two sweat stains in the shape of palms.

From his vantage point Wilks could watch Mr Hendry make his final preparation. The slipper he was to use was a size-ten white plimsoll, the type all the boys used in physical training classes. It was rare for schoolmasters to use the slipper at St Francis, the curved-handled rattan cane was the preferred weapon of chastisement.

Herr Mueller, the German PT instructor, was the only other master Jack could think of who used the slipper: and, he used it all the time. Only yesterday in gym class he had lined all the boys up to begin physical jerks and warned. “From now on, any boy who talks gets ten swats.”

Of course, the class joker Morrissey couldn’t resist saying, “Jawoll Mein Führer!” in a stage whisper.

 

Later that day when Morrissey showed off his marks (tight cotton PT shorts are no protection), he reckoned, “Do you know I think he enjoys whacking our arses.” It could be, and, one might suspect, Morrissey enjoys giving him the excuse.

Mr Hendry gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand and gave it a few smacks down into his left palm, to get its measure. Then Jack saw the master disappear behind him. The teenager was still wearing his green school blazer and the master had to manoeuvre it up his back a little away from the area of immediate interest.

Satisfied that the target area was clear, the schoolmaster gripped Jack’s trousers at the waist and tugged them up tight so that they performed a ‘wedgie’ emphasising the shape of his buttocks and the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

Jack took a deep breath and screwed his eyes tight and waited for the pain to begin.

The boys often discussed whether the cane hurt more than the slipper; Jack always voted for the cane. In truth, it depended on who was inflicting the punishment. The cane tapped lightly into fleshy buttocks is unlikely to hurt as much as a size-ten rubber-soled plimsoll whacked in at great force.

Mr Hendry believed in corporal punishment and knew for it to be effective it had to be painful. So he was of the ‘whack it in with great force’ school of disciplinarians. And, that’s exactly what he did to Jack.

Six swipes crashed into his upturned buttocks. He pushed his face down into the vast soft cushion to stifle any yelps he might need to make and gripped onto the front of the armchair for dear life.

Every whack hurt him, but he had to admit, it did not hurt so very much. He was sore, but very quickly the throbbing would turn into a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender for a while and he would have some bruises to show off to his classmates, but they would wear off pretty quickly.

“Stand up boy.”

Jack was red faced from being bent upside down over the chair, but there were no tears. Despite the number of times he had been beaten at school, the experience always embarrassed him and he kept his head down to avoid looking at his punisher. He even avoided eye contact when the master handed him the punishment book to sign.

Then, with his bottom tingling, Jack was dismissed with the words, “Send in the next boy.”

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

More stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Through the window

The honourable thing

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com