The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

A sixth-former facing a detention asks The Gaffer to cane him instead … and gets much more than he bargained for

Part one of The Gaffer of The Academy is here.

Part two of The Gaffer of The Academy is here.

A Gaffer of the Academy story. For more click here
A Gaffer of the Academy story. For more click here

“What do you mean boy, you want your detention next Saturday to be ‘caned off’?” The Gaffer was genuinely baffled. What nonsense was the boy talking?

Harry Parker of the Upper Sixth stood up straight in front of the desk; hands behind his back, a bright smile on his face. The Gaffer believed in the cane; he’d understand; he knew that.

“Well boy!” The Gaffer’s patience was thin.

The eighteen-year-old had rehearsed a little speech. All the fellows agreed; it made perfect sense.

Harry took a deep breath and launched into it. Last Saturday he had been caught breaking bounds; he went to the nearby town without permission. His punishment was to be ‘gated’ and put in detention on the coming Saturday. But, that was the day of the Inter School Football semi-finals. His school The Academy was in with a chance of winning the match and going on to the final for the first time in its history.

Harry Parker was The Academy’s star winger; he could run rings around any schoolboy defence. Some people reckoned he could be a professional player if he chose to. But Parker in detention meant no Parker on the wing and with that bang went the school’s chance of cup tie glory.

“So you see sir, if you could see your way to dropping the detention and caning me instead, I could play in the match.”

Harry Parker was an honourable chap; he had broken the rules and he must be punished. He accepted that, but it was so dashed unfair to himself and all the other chaps to gate him and not let him play in the match.

The Gaffer’s jaw actually dropped slightly; in his twenty or more years as a schoolmaster he had never heard of such an idea.

“No!” His reply was as stern as it was emphatic. “You must take your gating and detention.”

Parker’s mouth opened to groan a response, but The Gaffer got there first.

“That is my final word. No. You are dismissed Parker.”

“But sir,” the football star wailed.

“Enough. Leave my study this instance.”

It was a crest-fallen boy who shuffled through the door.

The Gaffer sat back in his chair. Well, well, he had thought he had seen it all before. Obviously, a detention was much more of a deterrent to rule-breaking than a thrashing. The Gaffer’s cane had met with Parker’s backside on more than one occasion since the new Head of Sixth Form had joined the exclusive school. Perhaps The Gaffer’s thrashings were not quite as awesome as he had imagined. In future he would have to lay on the rod with extra vim.

The news was received badly in study number five.

Parker’s fellow players had expected to see their star chum limping down the passageway; his arse throbbing like mad. They were ready with their sympathies and gratitude: Parker had taken six for the team, good man!

They heard Harry’s tale with shock and grief. Bob Alberston spoke first, “Well that’s it I suppose. We’re out of the cup for sure.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” piped up Jim Brandhurst; a singularly dull boy who always asked questions but provided none of the answers.

“We could go to the headmaster and ask that he whop you!” Anthony Briggs, the team’s goalie, who at six-feet-four towered over his study companions, piped up.

No, they all agreed. The Gaffer had been their one and only hope. He was as keen on association football as anyone else in the school; they were sure he would help out the team.

The boys lapsed into silence as Jim filled a teapot with boiling water to make what the boys fondly called ‘a brew.’

Then Bob had an idea. “What do you think would happen if you simply missed the detention and played in the match?”

“It would mean a swishing for sure,” Anthony exclaimed.

“Well,” Harry was annoyed that his plan with The Gaffer had not worked, “So what. I offered to get the detention ‘caned off’, what’s the difference if I get the whacking before or after the match.” It was a statement, not a question, and gratefully the boys left it at that.

The less said about the match the better. A four-nil drubbing. Harry Parker and his footballing chums did not get a look in. Overwhelmed by superior strength and footballing ability, they were out of the cup.

It was eleven disappointed footballers who returned to The Academy. It was late and time for bed. In dormitory number two a dejected Harry Parker stepped into his pyjamas. As he was tugging at the drawstring, a fresh young junior called Ratkinson poked his head around the door.

“Message from Mr Robinson; Parker you are to attend at his study,” he reported breathlessly. And as if it were not obviously the case, he added quickly, “At once. Immediately.”

“Oh dashed back luck,” Bob patted his friend on the back. “Still, it’s best to get it over with quickly.”

It had been expected, of course. Without muttering a word, Harry Parker reached for his dressing gown and slippers, put them on and exited the dorm, leaving his chums to contemplate the star winger’s fate in silence.

It was a slow, long walk to The Gaffer’s study. Bob was right, Harry thought, it was best to get it over with now. It would be a caning for sure. After all, he had been over the back of The Gaffer’s armchair before and survived: what was the worst that could happen?

He reached the study, took a deep breath and with more swagger than he really felt, he rapped his knuckles heavily on the heavy oak door.

“Enter!”

Harry could not keep his hand from trembling as he turned the handle and inched opened the door. He was astonished at what he saw.

In the centre of the room was a heavy wooden contraption that Harry did not recognise. It looked like a large step; something that you might use in a library to reach the top most shelves. Standing next to it was a huge enamel bucket and soaking inside it were two enormous birches.

“Come, stand in front of my desk,” The Gaffer was as furious as Harry had ever seen him before. The Head of the Sixth Form had a reputation among his boys as a stern man; he was not much of a humourist.

“Parker!” he launched into a prepared speech. He ripped the boy to shreds. He had skipped detention, he had absented himself from the school and most of all had deliberately and wilfully disobeyed The Gaffer. Never had a boy at this school behaved in such a disgraceful manner.

Harry heard none of it. He could not take his eyes off the enamel bucket and the birches. They were made from about eight or nine long twigs bound together with twine. The twigs ended in a spray wide enough to cover the whole area of Harry’s buttocks. He didn’t know this but they had been soaking in brine for most of the day to make them supple to deliver the maximum sting.

“So, I am going to give you a terrible punishment.” Harry woke up at this. “I telephoned your father this afternoon and gave him a choice. Either you should be expelled from this school or you should receive twelve strokes of the birch rod. He consented to the birching.”

A shudder ran through Harry’s body and wind rushed from his stomach. Just in time he sucked down a stream of vomit from his throat. The birch. No boy that he knew had ever been birched at this school.

Harry’s deathly pale face betrayed his fear.

“You should think yourself lucky boy that we are not in main hall for a public thrashing.”

If the Gaffer had meant this as a word of comfort, he failed. Blood was speeding through Harry’s veins and his blood pressure was sky high. Any moment now he might drop to the floor in a dead faint.

“Let us get on with this. Please take off your dressing gown and put it on my desk.” Harry had no idea how he managed to control his fingers sufficiently to untie the knot in the cord and do as instructed.

“Now kick off your slippers and remove your pyjama bottoms.”

Soon Harry was naked from the waist down. The boy did not feel the least self-conscious in his nudity. At this school a boy was often partly or fully naked in front of his school chums. Only minutes earlier he and the others in dormitory number two had undressed in front of each other.

“Now, mount the block.”

Harry’s puzzled expression betrayed him. Mount the block; what did that mean?

“You kneel on the lower step and bend across the top. Place the palms of your hands on the floor.”

In something of a trance, Harry approached the wooden contraption and hesitantly placed his knees on the step. Then he reached forward and laid his stomach across the top. He was a small boy and could not quite reach to the floor so his fingertips hovered an inch or so above the carpet. In this position his bare bottom was raised at a convenient angle for The Gaffer to lash.

Harry wriggled a little as the heavy wooden block dug into his knees and stomach. Absurdly, since in a moment any thought of this discomfort would pale as the birch rods tore him to pieces, he wished he had a cushion to kneel on.

The Gaffer took hold of the boy’s wrists and secured them tightly in leather cuffs especially designed for the purpose. Then his pyjama jacket was roughly pushed up his back away from the target area. Then The Gaffer reached into the bucket and extracted a birch, he swished it through the air to dry it and Harry felt droplets of water sprinkle the back of his legs.

There was a long pause and then a gigantic swish and the first stroke fell. It landed with a resounding crack. Harry felt the wet branches across his naked rear, but to his tremendous shock, not much pain. There was a tingling sensation and it felt like an egg whisk had been smacked into his bottom.

The second swipe landed right on target and again Harry hardly felt a thing. The boy couldn’t work it out. Was The Gaffer deliberately going soft on him? If so, why? Why go to all this trouble of preparing the birch twigs and then not whip him thoroughly?

What Harry did not know, at least not yet, was that it took a few strokes for the effects of the birch to penetrate.

There was another long pause, before swish! Crack! down came the birch rod again with tremendous force. Jeeezzz! Harry felt that one alright. He let out a yelp and wriggled. He had been beaten with a cane many times in the past, but nothing had felt quite like this. He lost control of his hands and they flailed around. He wished he had been bent over the chair or The Gaffer’s desk; at least then he would have something to grab hold of.

There was another lengthy delay and once more the birch came down hard to deliver the worst stroke yet. By now Harry’s bum was raw; he was very frightened, uncertain that he could take twelve full strokes of this birch.

There was a terrifying hiss, then those whippy twigs hit the target area again. Harry felt a very severe sting which steadily spread across his bottom. It hurt so much that it drove all the breath out of him and he lay across the block panting and squirming. This was a whipping of a lifetime; each stroke was hurting more than the one before and Harry dreaded the next one.

The next stroke was timed perfectly and the sting was so intense it made Harry scream and he started to rise from his prostrate position only to feel the strong hand of The Gaffer pushing him back down.

“If you move, you will receive extra stokes,” The Gaffer exclaimed sternly, and then in a more gentle tone he added, “It is best if you take your punishment like a man.”

Tears flooded down Harry’s cheeks and gulping and coughing for air, the boy resumed his position, head low, arms stretched out front and naked buttocks high.

The pause between strokes was the longest so far. Harry clenched and unclenched his cheeks in anticipation of the next lash. Why wasn’t it coming? Then the boy realised, his tormentor was over at the bucket withdrawing a fresh birch rod.

The seventh stroke landed viciously. It hurt atrociously, the most painful one yet. The Gaffer applied the next stroke to Harry’s bare and still writhing backside will all his weight. The wretched boy howled as the ferocious bite of the wet twigs penetrated his flesh, sending him into violent contortions.

Harry was not sure what happened next. Later running the events over in his mind, he could not be sure that he hadn’t fainted. He vaguely remembered howling and pleading for it to stop, but the scolding birch continued to hiss and lash, flogging him unmercifully. This was not punishment, this was torture.

Harry woke up. It was the middle of the night. He was face down on the bed; his head in his arms. His pyjama bottoms had been removed and his jacket was scrunched around his shoulders. A thick bandage was wrapped around his bottom to hold in place a dressing that was easily half-an-inch thick.

He was alone in the room. Where was he? It took some moments to place it. Of course, this was the school’s sanatorium; the sick room. How had he gotten here? He could remember nothing except the searing agony in his arse. Cautiously, he moved his arms from beneath his head and with the tips of his middle and index fingers he gently touched the dressing on his bottom.

Jesus H Christ! That hurt! Just a slightest movement against the burnt flesh was enough to send paroxysms of pain shooting through his entire body. Copious tears fell into the boy’s pillow and once again he buried his head in his arms, not knowing that he would lay face down on the bed for three full days before the agony eased sufficiently for him risk putting pressure on his buttocks.

Other school stories you might like.

The padded armchair

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over

The run

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Gaffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

A Gaffer of the Academy story. For more click here
A Gaffer of the Academy story. For more click here

Picture the scene: An empty classroom, late at night. Outside: dark, cold, snowy. Inside: The Gaffer, wearing his gown; me in my pyjamas, trousers around the ankles, bending over a sloping desk at the front of the room.

I had no one to blame but myself. The Gaffer had impressed the rules upon us time and again and we knew the penalty if we disobeyed. That morning I had been spotted out of bounds in the town by one of the junior masters and had shown insufficient regret.

And, that was how I came to be in the cold classroom after lights out with my bared bum up in the air. Moments earlier The Gaffer had given me his (by now) ritual sermon about unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour – totally unexpected of sixth-form boys who were also prefects. I listened in a dazed state – unable to take my eyes off the dreadful man in his greasy jacket and oversized academic gown. I despised the man, even as I was terrified that he could punish me in any way he wished with impunity.

His rehearsed speech completed, he got down to the main business of the evening.

The Gaffer walked to behind the schoolmaster’s desk and opened a cupboard. I could see a number of canes laid out on a shelf. He extracted the longest and thickest one, closing the door before returning to deal with me. This cane had become a favourite of The Gaffer’s in the short time he had been at The Academy. It was a crook-handled senior cane about the thickness of a pencil that he used on the older boys when he wished to ensure that his message was clearly understood.

This particular model had more spring than flexibility and this meant a significant degree of bite. Boys left with weals rather than stripes on their bottoms and it was very effective even when used across the seat of a boy wearing his trousers and underpants. Across the bare flesh it was agonising.

To me, the cane looked threatening with its long, fairly thick, sleek, shiny, slightly curved shape. I had heard boys describe how it curled itself around the buttocks and delivered long lines of smarting, stinging pain, which increased with each stroke until the agony was beyond human endurance. I had seen the results of such canings, emblazoned on the buttocks of fellow sixth formers.

I thought they were exaggerating the agony, many of the boys were ‘teenager poets’ after all. I had boasted to myself that when my time came (I was sure it would inevitably come to each and every member of the Sixth) I would not cringe, writhe or wail. I had taken a few canings in the fourth and fifth forms, and they had never been that bad. But, as it turned out my brave resolve was misplaced.

“Now I have very simple rules for this: you bend over the desk and grab hold of the legs. I cane you,” The Gaffer said. “Then you stay in position for the next stroke. Anything different and the stroke will not count: I repeat it and add another one to the overall total as well. Understood?”

It was probably meant as a rhetorical question, but I meekly answered nonetheless, “Yes, Sir.”

“Now take down your pyjama trousers and bend across that desk and present your bare backside to me,” he swished the cane as he pointed it at a single-seater desk in the front row.

This command had not been unexpected. After the shock of witnessing McCain’s over-the-knee spanking on his underpants we boys soon learned that The Gaffer specialised in cruel and unusual punishments.

I was shivering, but not only because of the freezing temperature inside the classroom. I had never been so scared in my life as my fingers fumbled with the pyjama drawstring and I let down the bottoms until they lay in a heap on top of my bedroom slippers.

“Six strokes. If I were feeling less lenient you would be about to receive twelve for your disobedience and rudeness,” he said.

I shuffled forward a step or two and lowered myself across the slopping school desk, in exactly the same way, grabbing the thin wooden legs one in each hand, as I had when the maths master Mr Thompson had caned me in the Fifth.

At my height I fitted perfectly across the desk, presenting my bottom at a forty-five degree angle to receive the lashes from the Gaffer’s cane. I had been in this position before, but never with a bared bottom and with my crack and balls on full display to my punisher. I felt totally humiliated. I really wanted to run away and despite promising myself to be brave, I found that tears were beginning to prickle the back of my eyes.

I wasn’t to know this, but The Gaffer took a few moments to size me up. He thoroughly enjoyed beating the backsides of teenaged boys and he very much admired the sight of me bent across the school desk, offering myself to him dressed in my red-and-white-striped-pyjamas with the trousers bunched at my feet.

I was eighteen years old and had grown to my full height of 5ft 9ins and already weighed about ten stones (one hundred and forty pounds). When I bent across the sloping desk I presented smooth, very muscular thighs that spread almost imperceptibly into broad, meaty, hairless buttocks. My cheeks did not jut out much, but they provided much more padding than many backsides.

These buttocks, The Gaffer reckoned, could take a great deal of punishment. They were so meaty that it would be difficult to cause any damage. So, he could really give it to me – and he could not wait to get started with his cane. Roughly he gripped the tail of my pyjama jacket and dragged it a foot or so up so I was naked for him from the small of my back to my feet.

Then sounds of a cane being tested and swished through the air filled the silent vacuum of the classroom producing a chilling sound which made me shiver. After tapping my behind a few times to judge the distance, he raised it high and swished it hard into my trembling backside. I heard the swish then felt a searing white heat of pain across my bum cheeks as though a rapier had ripped across them and a burning throbbing welt began to swell, making me gasp for breath.

Once again the cane struck low down this time right across the top of my thighs, I yelped and the tears poured down my cheeks. As each stroke cut into the meaty flesh there was at first no pain and then within seconds I felt an excruciating stinging sensation. It was unbearable and much worse than any earlier caning I had endured.

The Gaffer was an expert with the cane. He started at the top of my buttocks and covered all the way down to the crease of my bottom and thighs before laying the sixth and final cut in a diagonal line right across the other five. Each stroke caused me to buck, but the last one just about lifted me off the desk and my feet left the ground. My bedroom slippers were kicked across the classroom as my feet stamped up and down as if performing a military dance.

Stunned, racked with pain, my finger nails dug into the palms of my tightly clenched hands as I held myself over the desk for dear life.

The Gaffer left me laying across the desk as I wheezed, gasping to catch my breath. The agony coursed through my entire body and I could feel deep welts now criss-crossed my buttocks. My tears would not stop and my shoulders heaved as I continued to cling tightly to the school desk.

The Gaffer took his time to admire his own handiwork. There were six angry lines of purple; five in parallel symmetry across my still vibrating cheeks and one going from the bottom left to the top right making the pattern of a five-bar gate: blood oozed at points where the final slash intersected with the previous ones.

Bruises had already formed across the edges of the cheeks where the tip of the cane had wrapped around the globes. The overall impression was that my bottom had been thoroughly whipped and now somewhat resembled raw hamburger meat.

I heard the cupboard open and the cane being replaced, but I stayed staring at worn floorboards. My buttocks agonized like crazy and I very much wanted to sit down in something very cold to try to relieve the aching.

The Gaffer was not a man to be rushed. As he looked down at the soft round bottom and the red striped mounds, he was in no doubt that I had been most severely punished.

After what seemed like an eternity The Gaffer ordered me to get up. I stood behind my desk and didn’t move. I just looked at the top of the desk. My backside was throbbing like I had never experienced in my other canings. At that moment I resolved that I never wanted another beating again while at this school. I didn’t realise that I was still naked from the waist down and The Gaffer had a full view of my swollen buttocks and my manhood.

It was not his style to lecture a boy at the end of a thrashing, so he simply told me to pull up my trousers and go, adding that if I wanted a repeat performance one day, I should expect twelve strokes.

I hobbled from the room very aware of the freezing cold. Checking to see that The Gaffer was not following me, I dashed out of the building, lowered my pyjama bottoms and sat down heavily on the frost-covered lawn.

That night in the dormitory I lay face down on the bed with the sheets rolled back allowing the air to cool my burning buttocks.

The next morning under the communal showers my battered backside with its five-bar gate and technicolour bruises was admired by one and all. I had survived my thrashing from The Gaffer, now we wondered which of us would be next.

For The gaffer of the Academy, Part 1, click here

 

Other school stories you might like.

Six of the best caning stories 1. The sixth-formers

Six of the best caning stories 6. Unfinished business

High school reunion

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

For more Gaffer of the Academy stories, click here

All we schoolboys despised The Gaffer: from the very first time he joined The Academy to take over as Head of Sixth Form.

And, the loathing quickly turned to hatred when he demonstrated he could beat our backsides black and blue whenever he felt the need.

He was an ugly squat man and some of the boys joked he was as wide as he was tall. We hated him especially the first time he opened his mouth and revealed to us that he was from the northeast of England. When I look back now I realise we were odious snobs, but I blame the school for that: The Academy catered for the sons of the high professional classes, and even some from the minor aristocracy, and we were taught we were superior to the lower orders.

We knew The Gaffer was definitely not “one of us” the moment we heard him speak. To us boys the northeast accent, or ‘Geordie’ as it was known, belonged to coal miners and shipbuilders. We immediately nicknamed him ‘The Gaffer’ which we supposed was what working class people called their boss.

The Gaffer joined The Academy with what today would be called ‘an agenda.’ The headmaster had told him the boys of the sixth form were slacking and that we were disregarding rules and forgetting we were schoolchildren.

He was right up to a point, we were aged eighteen and even though in those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one, we considered we had already reached that status and should be treated accordingly.

The headmaster and The Gaffer saw it differently: whatever our ages, we were schoolboys and we were expected to behave like that. More so, we were senior pupils and it was up to us to set an example to the juniors.

The Gaffer knew he had to stamp down on our behaviour and do it quickly if he were to make any impact. So, right from the start he had the school rules printed out and posted on the noticeboard in the sixth form common room. In a lecture, he told us we were expected to follow the rules to the letter and any deviation from them would result in punishment: corporal punishment.

He let that last statement hang it he air a bit. None of us were surprised by this: corporal punishment was used frequently at The Academy. There couldn’t have been a boy in the whole school who hadn’t been slippered, tawsed, paddled or caned at least once in his career. The boys who were borders, that is they slept at the school at nights and weekends, were the most vulnerable: there were so many rules that could be broken.

Imagine, you were, say, a sixteen-year-old boy in the boarding school; you were expected to be in your ‘house’ by 9pm and start preparing for bed. Failure to comply with this rule would get you three strokes on the seat of the trousers from the housemaster. How different to the ‘day boy’ who would go home to his family at the end of the afternoon. How many parents did you know who would order their teenaged son to bend over the armchair for the cane, if he wasn’t in bed at nine?

We sixth formers knew all about corporal punishment and The Academy but we supposed that by the time we reached the age of eighteen our backsides would be safe from the cane.

The Gaffer wanted to make an example: he didn’t mind who the victim was, but one of us would have bend over in front of the whole sixth form and be punished severely – to encourage the others.

We were on our very best behaviour: we arrived at school on time and stayed all day (lessons weren’t timetabled for the whole day so the day boys usually drifted off home early). We stayed in school during ‘play time’ and avoided the back of the gymnasium; an area which the whole school knew was reserved for sixth former smokers.

The Gaffer became quite frustrated: based on our recent performances he supposed he could catch one or other of us out and deliver the public thrashing as planned without delay.

Eventually, he went seeking his victim and picked one of the ‘teenager poets.’ Most schools have teenager poets; they are the older pupils who think they are intellectuals and spend most of their days sneering at everyone else. They grow their hair a little too long and don’t knot up their neckties correctly. And, they criticise the ‘petty rules’ of the school, while (usually) ensuring that they themselves abide by them.

McCain was such a teenager poet. I don’t know if he literally wrote verse, but he was a ‘sneerer’ and had spoken out (but not in the earshot of the man himself) against The Gaffer and his new regime.

Most of the boys in the sixth form disliked McCain: he was just too full of himself. We were after all the people he spent most of the time sneering at: especially those of us who declared an admiration of sport or the popular music of the time.

So, when The Gaffer announced all the sixth formers must meet in classroom 21at the end of the school day, we might have been delighted to hear McCain was up for a public beating: but, in the pecking order of school life, we hated The Gaffer more than we did McCain.

We entered the classroom in hushed tones, like we were at church for a funeral. In other circumstances we schoolboys would have been delighted to see one of our own beaten, observing and later criticising how well he took his whipping. A boy who showed any sign that his beating had hurt, or worse he cried, would be teased mercilessly for the rest of the term.

The room filled quickly and we waited for the stars of the show, McCain and The Gaffer to arrive. The classroom was one of the largest in the school with room for about thirty boys. We sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so we could stash away our schoolbooks, or any contraband we didn’t want the schoolmaster to see. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

I knew from experience (my own painful experience) that a teenaged boy could bend himself across the desk, down the slope, to present his backside at a perfect angle to receive the lash of the master’s cane. Some of the desks had thin wooden legs and the pupil could grab onto these for dear life during the beating, which is what I did when Thompson, the maths master, had beaten me when I was in the fifth.

All the pupils’ desks in the front of the room were occupied so The Gaffer would have to make McCain lay across the master’s desk for his caning. It was quite small and McCain was tall for his age, so he should be able to reach across it with his stomach flat on the wooden top and his arms outstretched ahead and his hands gripping the far edge.

The door opened and The Gaffer entered, with McCain, head bowed, shuffling a couple of paces behind. We all stood to attention as the master entered, as was the custom at The Academy.

Even with his head lowered, McCain towered over the schoolmaster. He was quite a thin, wiry boy and already he had grown to at least six feet tall. Otherwise, he looked like a typical schoolboy, dressed in white shirt and grey trousers. His green and yellow stripped school tie had never been knotted so tightly in his life. McCain might have declared himself to be a ‘Bohemian,’ but his appearance belied this. He was always dressed immaculately; his mother took a great deal of pride in her son’s clothes. His shirt sparkled and a person could cut their finger on the sharp creases in his trousers and shirt. Only his scuffed black shoes gave any indication that he might not wish to be the model The Academy schoolboy.

The Gaffer stood in front of the blackboard and easel to start a prepared sermon. He recounted the rules of the school, why they were there, why they should not be broken, and the special responsibilities sixth formers had to the school. He spoke without notes, but was word perfect: he had spent a lot of time rehearsing this scene.

The sermon, nearly over, he moved on to the main event of the afternoon: the punishment. All we boys had talked about nothing else that afternoon and we expected to hear the instruction: “Bend over that desk.” McCain would do as he were ordered, The Gaffer would (with some ceremony no doubt) lash six-of-the-best into McCain’s bum. The boy would be dismissed and we could all go home.

It was only then that I realised The Gaffer did not possess a cane; surely he hadn’t forgotten to bring one with him. I scanned the room to see if one had been left out for his use. In some classrooms a demonic master might have his whippy cane on display, perhaps hanging by its curved handle from the blackboard easel, where every boy would be able to see the consequence of his bad behaviour.

One master who taught me in my first year even had a selection of canes standing in a basket in the corner of the room.

I couldn’t see a cane anywhere: but I didn’t realise The Gaffer had other ideas.

Having warned us all that corporal punishment was his preferred method of correction and that any one of us could expect such treatment in future, he stepped behind the master’s desk, picked up a large straight-backed wooden chair and manoeuvred it into the space between the pupils’ desks and the blackboard.

Then he sat down. The Gaffer was squat when he was standing and even smaller seated. He had to manipulate his academic gown so that he didn’t tread on its hem. To accomplish this he moved his buttocks from left to right and pulled his robe up his shins. Eventually, he was satisfied so he spread his feet about three feet apart and turned to look at McCain whose eyes had not left the floor from the moment he entered the classroom.

“Take down your trousers and bend over my knee,” The Gaffer said, as if it had been the most reasonable request that any schoolmaster might make of his eighteen-year-old pupil.

There was an astonished intake of breath from the class. Then you could’ve heard a pin drop. McCain’s was startled. His eyes shot from the ground to look at The Gaffer. His face was full of contempt. He was as astounded as his classmates. I could read his face as easily as any book. He was thinking: have I heard correctly? Take down your trousers. Bend over my knee.

Yes, he had heard him all right. That’s what The Gaffer had said. I could see McCain was thinking it over: should he do as instructed? What would be the consequences if he did not obey? Of course, today, if a schoolmaster tried to spank a pupil in this way the police would be called, but in those days the schoolmaster was the law and he could get away with anything – short of actually flogging a boy to death.

The Gaffer slapped his left thigh to emphasis his point. “Bend over boy.”

McCain avoided eye contact with the rest of us. He had made his decision: he had no choice: like any schoolboy he was required to do as his master dictated – without question. He was as embarrassed as hell as he unbuckled his belt and released the top button at his waistband. In no time the fly zipper was undone and he pushed his grey school trousers down to his knees, to reveal the tightly fitting gleaming white Y-front underpants he was wearing underneath; the front bulging. I wouldn’t have been the only boy in the room to have admired McCain’s package in the showers after a gym class. There was no doubting he was a young adult and not a little boy.

His face was scarlet as he turned side on to The Gaffer and obediently lowered himself across the man’s knees, placing the palms of his hands flat down into the dirty floor tiles. He kept his head high so that he could see straight ahead, but all the while avoiding eye contact with the rest of us. He seemed to be thinking: this can’t really be happening to me. I am not really bent across The Gaffer’s knee with my trousers at my knees waiting for him to spank me on the seat of my underpants.

McCain was far too tall to fit comfortably across The Gaffer’s knees, a sight that emphasised to me the absurdity of the situation. The lanky eighteen-year-old schoolboy was about to be spanked as if he were a seven year old.

The Gaffer could have chosen a more suitable target, I thought as I caught sight of Trinder sitting in the second row of the classroom. Trinder was as undersized for his age as McCain was over. Trinder had a medical condition (was it something to do with hormones?) and he looked about fourteen years old. I knew he could get away with paying the child fare on the trolleybuses. His short-back-and-sides haircut, bright brown eyes and almost completely hairless body stressed his child-like qualities.

The Gaffer should have taken Trinder across his knee: at least he would have slotted into place and the spectacle in front of me would be more visually pleasing. Perhaps, Trinder even deserved a spanking for dodging his fares.

While I was imagining that it was the delicious Trinder across the Gaffer’s knee, McCain did something I thought was extraordinary. Realising he was too tall for this spanking position he bent his knees in towards The Gaffer’s body. This had the effect of raising his bottom higher on the man’s right leg so that his buttocks pointed right up at him. He was saying: here you are, I am submissive, you can do with me what you want.

McCain closed his eyes tight and waited for the spanking to begin. But The Gaffer kept us waiting. He smoothed out the boy’s white cotton pants so they fitted across his globes like a second skin. (McCain’s mother would be so pleased at their cleanliness. In those days people would say you should change your underpants every day in case you were involved in a traffic accident. Now, at The Academy we would have to say: change every day in case you have to go over The Gaffer’s knee for a spanking.)

Then, daintily with both hands he took the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and moved it half way up his back. Then, without warning he slapped his hand down into the right cheek. And, then again into the left cheek.

McCain filled out his underpants very well. As each slap smacked into him I could see the fleshy globe absorb the impact. The Gaffer kept up a steady rhythm: one cheek then the other. McCain gasped a little, but I don’t suppose the spanking was hurting much. At worst he would feel a glowing tingle. A spanking by hand on the pants was never going to be too painful for an eighteen-year-old boy; not like it would be with a hairbrush, or a slipper or, say, a belt.

The Gaffer continued smacking alternate cheeks: slap, slap, slap, slap. Red marks were forming below McCain’s buttocks where some of the whacks missed his underpants and connected with bare flesh. They certainly looked raw.

The Gaffer gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants. McCain’s closed eyes popped open as he realised what was about to happen. The class held its collective breath: no that would be an indignity too far. Surely, he wouldn’t.

The Gaffer must have had second thoughts and released his grip and continued smacking into the cotton-covered buttocks. McCain seemed visibly to relax. I saw him bend his head lower so that he could see under the chair to look at his own feet as if he was trying to be both the recipient of the spanking, but also a spectator.

The Gaffer increased the strength of his spanks and the speed, until they were raining into his cheeks rapidly like machine gun fire. McCain gasped a little: he was feeling this. Soon, though The Gaffer realised his hand was hurting more than the teenager’s buttocks (probably a lot more).

He stopped, but still held on tightly to the boy at the waist: he was going nowhere. The Gaffer looked at the classroom full of boys; this was the first time he had done this since McCain went over his knee.

The Gaffer had a plan. He spotted Fanshaw, one of the day boys sitting at the front of the class. “Do you have a plimsoll in that gym bag?” He nodded to a cloth bag resting close to the boy’s feet. Did I see a slight smile cross Fanshaw’s lips as he understood the importance of the question?

Fanshaw had been observing McCain’s predicament at close range. From his vantage point in the front row he had a perfect view of the boy’s upturned bottom and sturdy legs.

A little too eagerly, I thought, Fanshaw untied the drawstring and delved into his gym bag and brought out a white rubber-soled gym plimsoll. He had the triumphant air of a diver who had just brought up treasure from the bottom of the sea.

“Bring it up to me boy.” The Gaffer had not released his grip on McCain, but the teenager managed to turn his head enough to witness his schoolfriend leave his chair and hand over the heavy slipper that would, surely, now, be used to take off his backside.

The Gaffer held the slipper tightly at the heel end and squeezed the slipper hard. His grip was so forceful his knuckles were turning white. McCain squeezed his eyes tightly shut once again and clenched his buttocks in readiness for the onslaught. I suppose McCain hoped the clamping of his cheeks would somehow lessen the pain he was about to feel, but as every naughty boy who has ever been spanked or beaten knows as a ploy this does not work.

“Relax boy,” The Gaffer meant McCain should offer up his bum as before. Instead, McCain’s whole body seemed to stiffen as the first of a dozen quick slaps of the slipper crashed without stopping into his underpants.

McCain growled audibly. Until now he had taken his smacking in silence, occasionally gasping or wheezing. There had not been too much pain: his bottom tingled a little and the hurt such as it was had turned quickly into a warm glow that was actually quite pleasant.

The blows from the plimsoll were altogether different. The pain was instant from the very first smack. By the time the first dozen had spread across his cheeks and the top of his thighs, he was wriggling his body and kicking his legs in a desperate unsuccessful attempt to dodge the slipper.

He was breathing heavily now and his face was as scarlet as I supposed his bum must be. Then came another dozen: delivered as hard and as rapidly as the others. Half way through McCain gave up all attempts at self-control and he yelped like a little puppy.

Sweat poured off The Gaffer. He might have wished he had taken off his heavy waistcoat before ordering the boy across his knee.

The schoolmaster held McCain firmly around the middle cutting off any possibility of escape and then launched into the third dozen. Pinned as he was securely facedown over his tormentor’s knees, the boy could do nothing except try to soak up the considerable pain. He pounded his hands into the floor tiles but this did not stop The Gaffer ripping up his backside.

McCain’s humiliation was completed when tears flowed down his cheeks and his little yelps turned to huge swallows and gulps. My classmates and I looked on mesmerized. When would this end?

Only The Gaffer knew that and he slapped down another dozen across the fleshiest parts of McCain’s cheeks. From where I sat it looked like his underpants had stuck to his bum. This severe over-the-knee little boy’s spanking had made his buttocks sweat.

Now, The Gaffer was gasping almost as much as his victim; the schoolmaster was not a very fit man and could not maintain such physical effort.

The final twelve slaps whacked into the underpants and it was over. Both The Gaffer and McCain were spent.

“Up boy,” The Gaffer wheezed.

McCain did not need telling a second time. He leapt to his feet and facing away from us the eighteen-year-old’s fingers probed first the uncovered portions of bare bottom and then under the thin cotton material of the white briefs, eventually he bent down to pull up his trousers, affording me a marvellous opportunity to see his tight bottom. The thighs were red raw and McCain would have difficulty sitting comfortably for some hours to come.

The show finished quickly. The Gaffer dismissed McCain and he shot from the room and ran from the school. In silence the rest of us left the room and went our different ways.

The next morning at gym class we all admired McCain’s bruised buttocks. In the past I had seen a few bottoms after they had been caned, but nothing looked this bad. The red marks I had seen as he pulled up his trousers were now a blueish-black and the whole of his rear end from the top of the buttocks beneath the spine, across the fleshy globes and into the thighs had the texture of leather. It would take more than a week before the bruises cleared completely.

We told him he had taken the spanking well (although he had howled the classroom down and I shouldn’t be surprised if he could be heard all over the school) and we called The Gaffer “a Geordie bastard” and so on.

It was the first and last time The Gaffer demonstrated his power and authority by administering a public beating, but it wasn’t the last time he beat a sixth-form boy, as I can personally testify. But that’s another story.

For part two, click here

 

Another series of school stories you might like.

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com