Jay Collins’ cock pulsated against his snug cotton underpants. Just the thought of the girls he would meet that night gave him a terrific hard-on. He stared at the tentpole in his pants. It was no good he would have to polish one off.
Quietly, he edged a straight-backed wooden chair towards his bedroom door. Then tipping it on its hind legs he wedged the top under the door handle. That would stop his mum coming in unexpectedly.
He lay on his bed and dragged the white Y-fronts over his throbbing muscle. Jay Collins, eighteen years old and a virgin. He had no control over his prick. He only had to be within ten yards of a girl and it saluted. He spat into the palm of his right hand and worked it up his rigid shaft. He closed his eyes and imagined himself rubbing his face between the breasts of a sixth-form schoolgirl.
It was the annual Christmas dance. The boys from St. Septimus against the girls of St. Winnie’s. His cock would never hold out.
Dr. Fortescue, the new headmaster of St. Septimus Independent Grammar School, had been clear. He was not a man who enjoyed life and he did not see why others should either. His rules for the dance were simple. No alcohol. No cigarettes. No jiving. Full school uniform. He did not say, “No petting between boys and girls.” He assumed that was already taken as read. “I shall be on hand to ensure there is no misbehaviour,” he growled at the boys. They all knew what that meant.
Jay had been at an all-boys’ school since he was eleven years old. He had hardly ever met a girl. Certainly, he had never been alone with one. Not even the sister of a friend. Now, tonight, he desperately hoped, he would be able to get close to one. Maybe, even to touch.
A stream of cum shot over his belly.
. . .
Audrey and Susan were rather mellow; courtesy of the miniature bottles of whisky they had smuggled into the dance in the pockets of their blazers. The school hall was full now. Somebody had taken great care with the decorations. “It actually feels like Christmas,” Susan shouted in her friend’s ear.
Audrey grinned, almost demonically. “Yes, and it’s time to hand out the presents.” Both eighteen year olds giggled conspiratorially.
They might be sixth-formers of St. Winnie’s, a somewhat demur school for girls, but they were worldly-wise. Like so many young women they found boys of their age own immature. Audrey and Susan preferred the undergraduates at the local university, and the students liked them very much indeed. There was something about a girl’s school gymslip and navy blue knickers that sent the boys wild. Audrey and Susan had long since ceased to be “maidens.”
Susan shrieked theatrically as yet another St. SIGS boy held a sprig of mistletoe above her head and demanded a kiss. She obliged and pursed her lips against a spotty cheek. Blushing profusely, the teenager ran away.
“He’s going back to his mother,” Audrey said, satisfied with her own superiority.
“We need to get moving. We’ll run out of time,” Susan cautioned her friend. She nodded an agreement.
The girls had a plan. It was fiendishly simple. It would work easily. They knew so; they loved it that they had so much power.
“Cock virgins. They’re all cock virgins,” Susan had told her friend earlier. “We can have anyone we choose.”
“Let’s find the most desperate two we can and give them the time of their life,” Audrey swung her long auburn hair around her face.
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Susan giggled. The word “hard” had set her off. She knew the allure her breasts had on young males.
Susan chose her victim quickly. A nerdy prefect. “He’s not bad looking either,” she told Audrey. “But, the look of desperation in his eyes …” she turned her own eyes heavenwards.
Audrey couldn’t make up her mind. There were so many to choose from. She rather supposed it would be a fair-haired lad who had danced ineptly with her. “It was obvious he had a hard on,” she reported, then howled, “Actually, he was hung like a donkey.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Susan led her friend back to the boys.
Jay Collins thought he was dreaming. A girl was asking him to go into one of the darkened classrooms with her. His cock thrust through the fly of his pants as she led him by the arm into the passageway. Audrey suppressed a sneer, he was like a dog slavering over a raw steak.
Dr. Fortescue, the headmaster, had abandoned his study. It was too far from the school hall; he would never be able to supervise the dance from there. He wrapped himself in his overcoat and set up a listening post in the geography classroom. Oh, why, he castigated himself, had he allowed this infernal dance to go ahead. He could be in his nice warm house, drooling over a favourite magazine.
The classroom was freezing. He slipped his hand inside his coat and withdrew a bottle of Teachers whisky. “Just for the cold,” he told himself unconvincingly. Furtively, he switched off the light.
The cold and the alcohol befuddled Fortescue. He couldn’t get the image of Peter Rodriquez out of his mind. The eighteen-year-old had troubled him since the first time he saw the olive-skinned beauty in the bar of the George Hotel. The boy’s jet black, almost blue, wavy hair was cut short exposing a longish slim neck. His mid-grey school trousers clung to the outline of his legs which went all the way up to tight muscular buttocks.
The headmaster had thrashed the teenager in front of the whole sixth-form on his unprotected naked buttocks. It was to the first of many beatings. Fortescue was known throughout the school as “The Tyrant Headmaster” and he had earned the title. No excuse was too small to have Rodriquez bent over a chair or the large desk in the headmaster’s study. Earlier that day Fortescue had lashed six stingers with his special dense Malacca cane into the boy’s stretched buttocks. The pale-grey trousers fitted like a second skin; the outline of the boy’s Y-front underpants clearly visible. That would teach him not to throw snowballs.
Fortescue took another sip at the bottle. The stirring in his pants was troublesome. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Stealthily, even though no one else was there to see, he slipped his hand under his overcoat. The tip of his cock was raw. He gasped in cold air.
Suddenly, the door flew open and the light came on. Four teenagers, two girls and two boys, stood in the doorway. It took a second or two for the full horror to sink in.
“Wha …?” Dr. Fortescue blustered hurriedly removing his hand.
“Oh lor!” Keith Green gasped.
All four backtracked, jostling one another in their urgency to leave.
“Wait. Stop where you are!” The headmaster roared. He was a commanding figure. He expected to be obeyed.
“You girl, what do you have there?”
Too late. Audrey had tried to slip the miniature bottles of whisky back into her blazer pocket. She blushed. Confused. The whisky had already gone to her head.
Dr. Fortescue rose from his seat. Standing, he made a tall, grim man. He looked as strong as an ox. The truth of this was soon to be demonstrated.
“All of you. Go to my study. Now. This instance. I shall follow you later.”
Without question, the four shuffled down the passageway. Their fate inevitable. Even for Susan and Audrey and they weren’t pupils at St. SIGS.
The headmaster’s study was set in the clock tower. The doleful teenagers had to slip and slide across the school quadrangle. The cold was intense, but none felt it. They had other concerns.
They manoeuvred the narrow stone steps leading to the study in silence and paused outside the heavy oak door. Without thinking, Green and Collins faced the wall and placed their hands on their heads. Audrey and Susan glanced at each other. They were familiar with these rituals. Things were much the same at St. Winnie’s. They joined their companions in submission. No one spoke. Each was left to contemplate what would happen next.
Minutes later, they heard footsteps. Two people. Voices. Dr. Fortescue had fetched Mrs. Witherington, the senior mistress at St. Winnie’s.
“Ah,” she cried, “I should have known. Henley and Stritch.” Mrs. Witherington, married for twenty years, but still a spinster, gurned her face like a gargoyle.
Dr. Fortescue lead the way into the study. “Wait here until you are called,” he growled over his shoulder as he closed the door. The room was still warm. Embers glowed in the large open fireplace. Satisfied that his manhood was no longer raging, the headmaster removed his overcoat and made about stoking the fire.
Mrs. Witherington admired the study. The huge desk, topped with green leather was magnificent. So was the mullioned window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls.
The study was panelled in oak. The fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall. She rather wished her own study at St. Winnie’s was so splendid.
Fortescue straightened himself from the fire, turned and faced his companion. “Corp-oreal punishment,” he ran the words over his tongue. It was a statement, not a question. They should be beaten, he had decided. His boys would be caned, but he would defer to the senior mistress on the girls.
“Most definitely, headmaster. Most definitely.” The headmaster was taken aback by Mrs. Witherington’s eagerness. She blushed when she noticed his quizzical stare.
Fortescue strode across the study to the tall thin cabinet. He found a key in his trouser pocket and rather like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he opened it with a flourish, suddenly realising how absurdly proud he was of his array of punishment instruments. He stood back offering his companion a view of its contents.
The doctor only used the cane himself; it was the only instrument that a headmaster should use. A thrashing by the Beak had to be awesome, something to be feared by the boys. But, his predecessor was a man of diverse tastes. That was why the cabinet also stored a leather taws, a white rubber-soled gym shoe and a wooden paddle.
The senior mistress’s eyes widened. A wooden paddle. She had never seen such a thing before. She reached in and picked it up, caressing it lovingly. “From America, I suppose,” she whispered softly.
It was a weighty piece of hardwood. It looked like a smaller version of a bread board she had at home. It was probably four inches by nine and had a firm handle attached. It had been lovingly created. All the edges had been sanded smooth and it been painted with several coats of varnish. Six small holes had been drilled into it. She could see it was a little worn, it had seen action in its time.
“Perfect,” she wheezed, as if to herself. “This will do the job.” She held the handle tightly and swished the wood through the air, taking its weight.
“Let’s get them in here,” Dr. Fortescue was taking control.
Four teenagers shuffled into the study. Eyes downcast, they stood hands clasped behind their backs in front of the headmaster’s enormous desk.
Jay Collins raised his eyes from the floor to look at the headmaster. The elderly man was stone-faced; his icy-blue eyes burned into the boy.
Dr. Fortescue was a man of few words, but this time he jawed and he jawed. He addressed the two abject boys. Letting the school down. Girls. Alcohol. He leaned back in his chair, so they could not smell the whisky on his own breath.
Susan and Audrey stared impassively at the worn rug beneath their feet. At least, the headmaster had not discovered the cigarettes. Nor, the condoms.
The lecture over, Dr. Fortescue pronounced sentence. Green and Collins drew in breath. The cane. Six. The boys’ hearts raced. “But,” the headmaster continued, “Mrs. Witherington will attend to the girls.”
The relief was etched on the boys’ faces. The cane. They had expected that. But, no mention of trousers down. Maybe, the Beak was in a festive mood. Goodwill and all that. The last time Keith had been in the study – with two other prefects for defying the Beak’s orders – it had been six swipes; on the bare. He cut their arses to ribbons. Keith could not sit in comfort for days. It was weeks before the marks cleared completely.
The senior mistress took her cue. “Henley. You first.” She eyed the leather-topped desk she so admired. She nodded to it. “If I may headmaster?” His eyes gave assent. “Bend over that desk.”
Audrey was impassive. She was no stranger to corporal punishment. She stepped forward to the desk’s edge, estimated its size and where she should put her arms and leaned forward.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Witherington barked. “Lift up your skirt. This is to be on the knickers.”
Keith Green’s heart thumped. Instinctively, he glanced at his classmate. Collins face was puce. Sweat was soaking his scalp, even though the study was rather cold. Both boys stared intently as, her own face now scarlet, Audrey hauled herself to her feet. She shot a pleading look at her senior mistress. If it was mercy she sought, her luck was out. All she saw was Witherington holding the paddle in her right hand and stroking it gently with her left.
Audrey had never seen such a weapon before. She had been spanked many time at school and at home with a slipper or a leather strap. They could sting like billyo, but this wooden board was in a different league. Her stomach twisted in knots and she resolved herself to be brave. She couldn’t let herself down in front of the boys. She grinned at them impudently to show she wasn’t afraid.
“Quickly, now,” the senior mistress patience was sorely tested.
Audrey hitched her skirt, uncovering her navy-blue knickers. She caught sight of Jay and remembered how hard he had been during the dance. Hung like a donkey, she had said. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the desktop, gritted her teeth and waited.
Witherington lined up the paddle with the cheeks, patting them gently in warning, then drew back. Whack! Suddenly there was an explosion and Audrey felt pressure against her backside pushing her forward. The paddle bounced off the firm bottom as if it was made of rubber. It was raw pain. The stinging was intense. It was nothing like the slipper or the strap. Her whole bum was alight.
Audrey jumped away from the desk, clutching her knicker-covered rear and danced furiously. Her face was bright red, her eyes bloodshot and watery.
“Stay in position,” the senior mistress growled. Contrite, Audrey lent over the desk once more.
“Green,” Dr. Fortescue had his own work to do. “Over to the chair boy.” He waved a curve-handled rattan cane. Green was startled. He was so fascinated by the girl’s arse; he had quite forgotten his own plight.
Swish! The cane flew again. “Take down your trousers,” the good doctor grinned. “Well as the ladies are being punished on their underwear, so must you,” he said in answer to a question etched on the sixth-former’s face.
Hands trembling, Green released the catch of his belt, conscious of Susan’s eyes burning into him. His trousers slowly slithered down his thighs. His bum was round and firm. He was outgrowing his underpants and they clung tightly to his buttocks and crotch. Unintentionally, Susan licked her top lip as she watched the eighteen-year-old lean forward over the chair, submitting his backside to the lash of the cane.
Jay had no interest in his pal’s predicament. He could not pull away from Mrs. Witherington. She raised the hefty wooden paddle to her shoulder height and slammed it forward. It landed with crushing force against the knicker-covered bottom.
“Ooooh! Ouch!” Audrey roared, half-rising up from the desk.
“Stay in position,” Mrs. Witherington slammed the wood into Audrey’s backside again.
Across the study, the headmaster “sawed” his cane across the top most part of Green’s round bottom. The boy’s body tensed, expecting an explosion of agony. It was not long in coming. Dr. Fortescue spun his body, rather like a golfer, and landed a stinger. He was rewarded by a clear line across the top of the sparkling white underpants. He knew a red raw welt would be instantly forming across the teenager’s taut flesh. Air rushed through Green’s clenched teeth. His knees buckled and his bum rose an inch or two over the back of the armchair. He steadied himself and waited for slash number two, conscious of the paddle raising and falling and the yelps of Audrey from across the study.
The paddle smacked again and again. Audrey soon lost count. Her buttocks quivered and throbbed. Spasms of pain ran across the blistered flesh. By the time the twelfth and final whap! had crashed into her, Audrey’s eyes were wet. Her bum was incredibly sore. She hastily wiped the tears off her face, hoping her friends had not seen. When instructed, she stood, smoothed her skirt down and stood against the wall, allowing her friend Susan to take her place.
Susan was taller than Audrey. Jay, who was no expert on these things, thought her posterior was a little fleshier than her friend’s. It could probably absorb the awesome wood much better. He watched her take hold of the hem of her skirt, raise it high, exposing bottom and long, slim legs and lean forward offering herself to her tormentor.
The headmaster had completed his Six. Keith rose unsteadily and hopped from foot to foot. Even with his pants up, it had been a terrific whacking. He wanted to massage away at the pain, but didn’t want the Beak to know he was hurt.
Audrey, looked on transfixed. She rather wished he had giving himself a rub. She wouldn’t mind feeling that arse for herself.
“Collins, you next.” Dr. Fortescue tucked the cane under his arm and glared at the boy. Jay’s face paled. He could not move. “But, Sir …” he blubbered. His hands wrung in front of him, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t face the Beak. “Please …. I can’t, Sir. Please, no. Don’t make me.”
The headmaster slipped the cane into is hand and swished it menacingly. “Pah! Come on lad. We haven’t got all night,” he growled. He walked forward, intent on gripping the teenager and hauling him to the chair. Jay Collins swerved to avoid the clutch and ran to the door.
“Stop him! Stop him!” Fortescue roared at an astonished Green. Too late. The door swung open and Jay had made his escape.
“Come back. This instance!” Never in his entire life as a schoolmaster had such a thing happened. Of course, boys were sometimes reluctant to bend over and take their punishment like men. If need be the headmaster would have a senior boy pinion an offender across a desk or chair. But like the Canadian Mounties, Dr. Fortescue always got his man.
Not this time. At least, not yet. Collins was now slipping and sliding across the school quadrangle towards the school gates and his home. A large hot sticky patch of goo spreading through the front of his trousers.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one in a series of stories called The Tyrant Headmaster. To read episode one, click here
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second