It was thirty years ago

The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!” Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago.”

Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.

“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St. Francis has always been a very traditional school.”

“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were  pleased when they abolished the cane,” Jackson wriggled on his chair.

“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in state schools. St FIGS is an independent school,” he laid great stress on the word independent. “The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in 1999.” And more’s the pity, he thought. Look how the county had gone to the dogs since.

“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did you ever cane a boy Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly questions.”

He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.

“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.

Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers, Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”

“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.

@

 

Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in his bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together. “Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.

“War …?” Robbie was speechless.

“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not been asked. “It’s the real deal.”

Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it in his hand.

“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”

Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.

“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break it.”

Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off to.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate would love it.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.

They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.

Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His cock was on the march.

Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.

“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.

“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”

Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies. His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr. Hawkes who wielded the cane.

Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his backside to his friend.

Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He took aim again.

Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged. He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.

It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation (or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and with a flick of the wrist send it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers. His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.

Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”

Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism, he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The Avenue.

Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking. “Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived six-of-the-best?

The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s reflex action to the assault.

Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.

A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously. “Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.

A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.” He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the other furiously rubbing  the seat of his trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s backside was a similar colour.

“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank off watching it.

“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”

“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.

Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.

Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked thigh. He screamed.

Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.

Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Fr. Pat’s paddle

University student late for class

The pub manager

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Snowballs

z used drawing snowballs Mag (2)

 

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 grey moustache bristled and his knitted 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. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come. It might even be a white Christmas.

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.

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 comes from a free-to-download collection of stories about St. Francis Independent Grammar School (St. FIGS). For more details click here.

Other stories you might like.

A preacher teaches humility

Peeping Tom

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. The St Francis Independent Grammar School stories

st figs logo headmaster

 

In this free-of-charge book offering we revisit St Francis Independent Grammar School. St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. We meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

The book runs for more than 23,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

For more free-to-download books click here

A memory

z used drawing cane master Mag (53)

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

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

It was Will Rigley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You may rise. Harkness take his place.”

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

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

Picture credit: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Mr. Bashford takes charge

An encounter

Brad, the spanking-movie star

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The St Francis Independent Grammar School stories

st figs logo headmaster

In the latest free-of-charge book offering we revisit St Francis Independent Grammar School. St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. We meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

The book runs for more than 23,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

 

Other books available to download free-of-charge.

Summer at Uncle’s

The Private Tutor

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

St Francis Grammar School. Snowballs

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. For more click below

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.

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.

Other St Francis Grammar School stories you might like

New boy at school

 Kevin revisits his old school

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The run

CREATOR: gd-jpeg v1.0 (using IJG JPEG v62), quality = 85
A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. For more stories click here

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 from St Francis Grammar School you might like.

Murph in the headmaster’s study

The padded armchair

Kevin revisits his old school

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com