Fake News #10

z used fake news ama (18)

Back in Short Trousers at Brocklehurst High

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

(Photograph posed by models)

 

Boys up to the age of eighteen and beyond at Brocklehurst High will be made to wear short trousers as part of their school uniform from next term.

It is part of a new disciplinary regime that also sees the return of the whippy crook-handled rattan cane.

New headmaster Dr. GOF Powell made the announcement this week in a letter to parents of the 750 boys-only school.

Dr. Powell told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The boys need to know that they are not yet adults. They are children and they should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers will be a constant reminder of that.

“They should also respect adults at all times and obey instructions.”

Dr. Powell became headmaster in January with the remit from school governors to “tighten up discipline”.

He said that after the government announced it would allow schools to reintroduce corporal punishment, Brocklehurst High wrote a new code of conduct.

“Boys will be left in no doubt about the consequences if they do not adhere to the rules,” he said.

Dr. Powell is on record as a strong supporter of the cane. He was one of a number of educationalists who lobbied for its reintroduction.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle the cane could be used on boys of all ages, but he intended to target the eldest pupils in the sixth-form first.

“We have pupils who are eighteen years old and they have no idea how they are supposed to behave. There are only a few months before they leave school so we do not have time to waste. They must know that I will not hesitate to deliver a sound six-of-the-best across the backside of any sixth-former – including the prefects – if I deem they deserve such punishment.”

The new rulings have largely been welcomed by parents. Mrs. Alison Golightly, the chairwoman of the school’s Parent Teacher Association, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “I think many parents will welcome the reintroduction of the cane. My own son is completely out of control at home. I have no husband and I hope the headmaster will beat some manners into him.”

Boys at the school had mixed reactions to the introduction of short trousers. Oliver Bateman-Manning, aged 18, the head boy of the school, said it might be good to wear short trousers in the hot summer months, but “they will freeze our knees off in winter”.

Another sixth-former who did not wish to be named said, “Short trousers can be very sexy. Of course, it depends on a boy’s legs and bum.”

Senior boys welcomed news of the reintroduction of the cane. John Herbert, aged 18, said, “Discipline has been poor for many years. A sore backside is a small price to pay if we get good A-level grades and get to a top university.”

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

More Fake News stories here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Approved School Santas

used drawing santa claus squad cane

Mr. Jossop, the headmaster of Lansbury Approved School for young offenders, peered through his rimless glasses. Mr. Kochinhand, his senior housemaster, was a kindly man, but this was a hare-brained scheme. It was fraught with danger. It was sure to be a disaster.

“The Rotary Club are one-hundred-percent behind it, headmaster,” Kochinhand beamed.

They would be, Jossop grimaced.

“What could possibly go wrong, headmaster?” Kochinhand was not to be deterred.

Jossop’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Everything, he thought. Everything.

The Rotary had organised it all, Kochinhand had explained. Young children all over town would get a visit from Santa Claus. The orphanage, the children’s hospital, the many charities that gave meals to the children of destitute families.

“And they want our lads to be the Santas,” Kochinhand could not stop beaming. “It’s an excellent idea, don’t you think, headmaster? It would give our boys a chance to show responsibility,” Kochinhand wrung his hands together. “What could possibly go wrong?” he asked again.

Lansbury was a school for young criminals. Four hundred boys, up to the age of nineteen, crammed the dormitories and classrooms. Thieves, robbers, repeat offenders. They shouldn’t be let loose on poor defenceless children, Jessop thought.

What could possibly go wrong? They could abscond. That’s what. It was by far the biggest headache approved schools faced. They weren’t prisons; they were just boarding schools. Slightly more secure than the most expensive fee-paying schools in the land, but boarding schools nonetheless.

Absconding. That was why the boys were forced to wear ridiculous uniforms. Brown short trousers and beige knee socks. Up to the age of nineteen. Any boy on the run from approved school would be immediately spotted by the public. Especially in the depths of winter.

They always came back. Then, they would be up before Jessop. Bent across his desk, resting on their elbows (his preferred position), while he lashed his stout but whippy cane across the seat of their short trousers. Eight strokes for the sixteens and overs. Six of the best for the rest.

“So, headmaster,” Kochinhand was not letting this go, “Do you approve?”

No, Jessop was sure, he decidedly did not approve. If he had his way, the boys would be locked in their rooms over the so-called “festive season.” They were nothing but trouble. Keep them there until New Year had come and gone.

But, life was never so simple. Many important people, those with influence, belonged to Rotary. They would not take kindly if he and his school turned down their offer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Kochinhand,” he sighed. “But, you take responsibility for it mind.”

Beaming from ear-to-ear, Kochinhand left the headmaster’s office. Jessop leaned back in his chair and groaned.

Despite his cheery demeanour, Kochinhand was not confident the boys would sign up for Santa. Never volunteer, was the mantra of the approved-school inmate. Why should they help the bosses?

“It’s for charity,” he told the surly senior boys. “Helping poor children.” He hoped that would strike a chord, for every one of the lads he cajoled was from a deprived family. His reward was silence and indifference. In despair, he slouched off to his study.

He was close to astonished when an hour later Tomkinson, a nineteen-year-old house breaker, knocked confidently on his door. He had six names. All ready to be Santa. “Just give us the sacks and point us in the right direction!” he grinned.

Kochinhand was overjoyed. Jessop suspicious. Why had they volunteered? It could only be they intended to run away. Who wouldn’t prefer to spend Christmas at home than at Lansbury? “I don’t trust them an inch,” he growled. “They’re up to something.”

Jessop had a plan. Next day dressed in his own Santa suit he lined up six Father Christmases. Despite their youth and general thinness, they quite looked the part. Even sour Jessop had to admit that. Jessop paced the ground before them. Tucked under his arm ready to slip into his hand at a moment’s notice was a stout cane. He was rarely seen throughout the school without an ashplant.

He had the air of a sergeant-major as he strode up and down. “Surveillance!” He said the word three times. For emphasis. “You will all be under surveillance. Do not for one moment think of absconding!” The false whiskers covering each boy’s face hid their smirks remarkably well.

Jessop growled his suspicion. There wasn’t a backside in front of him that he hadn’t thrashed in the past few months. Why would the lads want to help the school?

“We’ll be watching you. Like hawks.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” they chanted in unison as they shuffled off to waiting cars, heavy sacks on their shoulders.

 

 

Terry O’Kane, nearly nineteen, habitual shoplifter and house breaker and Santa for the afternoon, stood impatiently. No amount of cheap coloured paper decorations could brighten the dour mission hall.  He knew that green and grey paint. They were the only colours destitute people ever saw.

About thirty ragged children, not a decent meal inside any of them for weeks, sat listless in front of a geezer performing conjuring tricks. By their sides, already abandoned to indifference, were wooden fire engines for the boys and rag dolls for the girls.

O’Kane had performed his duty well. Now, he waited for his chance. There was one more thing to do before he could return to his sleigh and fly off into the night. He inched toward a table, furtively. Watching all the time for movement from the children or their Guardian-appointed overseers. There was no time to lose. There never was in these situations.

O’Kane loved the thrill of it. In a split second he could be away. Job done. Home and dry. Elated. Or, his collar could be felt. A figure of authority gripping him hard. Dragging him to the police station. The Magistrates Court. Approved School. He had seen it all before.

They all watched the conjurer. He was quite good, O’Kane had to admit; although he hated himself for thinking it. The Guardians had moved outside, into the frost, to be away from the stinking children. To smoke a cigarette in peace.

It was now or never. O’Kane slowly backed towards the table. He had already cased the joint. He knew what he wanted. All the usual Christmas fare was there. Turkey. Brussel Sprouts (the kids would love them, O’Kane sneered silently). Cake.

And, in the centre of the groaning trestle table; a plum duff. A Christmas pudding. Satisfied, he was not overseen, the teenager expertly scooped it up with one hand and into his Santa sack. He was through the door to freedom in seconds.

Three streets away at the Baptist Church Hall, Sandy Cockburn (pronounced Co-burn) had given away his presents. Baptists were not renowned for their jollity. These children had clearly leaned the trait young. Cockburn did not much care. He had never liked Christmas. Grownups got drunk, fought with one another and beat their kids. No, as far as Sandy Cockburn cared you could stuff Christmas along with your turkey.

But, he reckoned, this Christmas might be good fun. If the plan worked. It was dangerous; but not reckless. The lads at Lansbury might have the best holiday yet. Some old dame was organising games. The nineteen-year-old scrutinised the room. It was some kind of treasure hunt. They were following clues. Trying to find something. The key was in the Bible.

Cockburn stamped his feet on the ground. The afternoon was getting late, the air chilled quickly. He was glad of the Santa suit; his legs would be turning blue if he was wearing the short trousers of his approved school uniform.

Even so, he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself for warmth. How much longer would he have to wait? Suddenly, a movement from outside. A car drew up. Cockburn groaned. Jessop, the headmaster, had returned to take him away.

There was no time to lose. It was now or never. He couldn’t disappoint the other lads. They would never let him forget it. He scoured the room. Nobody was looking at him. The Bible was too interesting. Overexcited, overweight children yelled with glee. They had found the clue.

Cockburn shrugged his incomprehension. Two plates of jam tarts disappeared into his sack.

“Hello, Mr. Jessop,” he said cheerfully, as the headmaster lumbered through the door. “Look how excited they are.” He hoped his tormentor couldn’t hear his thumping heart. “I’m so glad you let me be Santa, Sir.”

Jessop growled. “Go wait in the car.”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Cockburn grinned and made his escape.

 

….

 

“Whatever possessed you to think you would get away with this,” the headmaster was at his most pompous. Even, for Jessop. Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, had made himself scarce. He couldn’t face his boss’s smugness.

Before him, bared-kneed, hands behind backs, eyes downcast slightly, stood six approved school lads. They had eaten the Christmas feast of a lifetime. Pies, cakes, pudding; the works. Fine food that tasted much better for being illicit. Stolen. From under the nose of the hated Jessop and his “schoolmaster” wardens.

Jessop rose from his chair and strode purposefully across his study. He stopped at the far end, near a row of cupboards. All present knew what was contained inside. He stopped, sniffed the air a little, and returned more sedately to his desk.

“I could send you all to the Magistrates Court,” he leaned into them, eyes blazing. The boys shuffled uneasily. They didn’t need it spelt out. Repeat offenders. Already approved-school boys. The consequences were dire. The birch. Bared buttocks. No question about it.

Jessop straightened. For two pennies, he would have them carted away. Let some bulky prison officer flog the skin off their backsides. But, he couldn’t. The full story would be told. Jessop, had sanctioned the Santa trip. He had personally supervised it. It would get into the newspapers. The national ones, not just the local rag. It would cost him his job.

Oh, he vowed, silently, he would make Kochinhand pay for this.

“But,” Jessop continued. He tried a warm smile. He wasn’t very good at it. He lacked practice. “This is the season of goodwill,” his stare burnt a hole in O’Kane’s forehead. “So, I shall be lenient.”

The teenager relaxed.

“But, not that lenient,” he scowled. “There shall be no magistrate. We shall deal with this here.”

Cockburn stiffened. This was expected. Jessop was fearsome with the cane. Cockburn had been beaten often – who at the school hadn’t? – but he could never quite get used to it. Other lads appeared to shrug it off. Six, eight strokes were as nothing. Cockburn always suffered. The pain of a beating. The resentment of having to bend over in ridiculous short trousers and offer up his arse to the bullying headmaster to whip. He hated it all.

Jessop retraced his steps across the study. This time, he paused at the far end, delved into his pocket, found a key and inserted it into the lock of a tall thin cupboard. Six lads, pulses racing, feigned indifference, at the rattle of punishment canes. They heard, but could not see, Jessop select one from his vast collection and then swish it. It made a terrific swoosh! as it cut through air.

There was a pause and another rattle. The headmaster was not quite satisfied. Somewhere tucked away at the back of the closet was the rod he wanted. “Ah!” he sighed loudly. Found it. He held it between his hands, flexing it almost lovingly. What a beauty. A Malacca cane, a little over three feet in length. Yellow-brown in colour. Straight, not crook-handled like traditional school canes. Quite thin but dense, with notches along it every four inches or so.

Oh, he wished fervently, if only he were permitted to flog them trousers and pants down. The Malacca was designed to take a bare arse off. Blood would ooze and welts would rise. They would stay for a week or more. A constant reminder to the louts before him of just who was in charge. Who was boss. He was. And, they were the scum of the earth. How dare they steal from the poor. How dare they humiliate him so.

Satisfied with his choice, Jessop pushed the door closed. “Face me,” he barked. There was no need for further words. “You know the drill.”

Indeed, they did. As one man, they shuffled across the study carpet and faced the wall. Unbidden, they placed their hands on their heads, waiting submissively. They heard the almighty swish of Malacca cane hurtling through empty air. Once. Twice. Then, three times.

“Right, O’Kane. You first.”

Pale-faced, the eighteen-year-old slowly turned to face his punisher. The headmaster had a lined face. He would say he had earned those lines. A lifetime fighting with young offenders would do that to you. His expression was mean, but so was his character. When had he stopped beating his boys to help them improve their behaviour and grow to fine adults? Now, he did it for vengeance. Revenge that these boys and countless more before him had destroyed his life. There was no helping the likes of them.

“Bend over the desk.”

O’Kane breathed deeply. He stepped forward and leaned headfirst. Soon his forearms were flat on the desktop. His back was arched and his legs spread. His tight shorts rode up into his crack. His buttocks were meaty, but firm. They stretched tightly. Jessop could see the outline of the teenager’s underpants.

There was nothing to be said, only a deed to perform. Jessop took up position a little to O’Kane’s left, placed the Malacca across the underside of the boy’s bum, and bent his own knees. Then, the cane rose towards the high ceiling of the study. Jessop twisted his body as the rod fell and sliced at full force into O’Kane’s arse.

The boy eyes shut tightly. His teeth bit deep into his lip. His head shook like a neighing horse. It hurt. The pain was incredible. Had Jessop seared him with a red-hot poker?

The second and third cuts swiped into the beefiest area of his rear. Again, O’Kane did the eyes shutting and the lip biting. His bum wriggled from left to right. He hated himself for showing it hurt, but he was not in control. This was a reflex action; his body was protesting against the agony being inflicted on it.

Outside the study door, Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, paced the passageway. How he needed to smoke a cigarette. His nerves were shattered. The message from his colleague Mr. Taser had been curt, brusque even. “Attend, the headmaster’s study. Immediately.”

He had heard of the boys’ trickery. The day would not end well for Kochinhand. The distinct sound of cane thwacking against stretched backside confirmed this. He waited, throat dry. Why couldn’t he get his hands to stop shaking?

He had not been told, but he knew Jessop’s mind. Kochinhand must wait until all six lads had been dealt with. Only once they had been punished and sent on their way, could Kochinhand enter the lion’s den and suffer his own painful fate.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

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

The School Dance

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Six of the best school stories

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Six of the best school stories

In this free-to-download book of stories we venture behind the walls of the school. The swish of the rattan and the crack of the paddle resound. Pyjama bottoms are lowered. Men of all ages present their bottoms for chastisement. A prefect shows a new boy at school who is boss and we get an insight into the life of the author Charles Hamilton II. But which of the stories is inspired by a real incident in his life? You work it out.

This book runs for more than 17,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

six-of-the-best-school-stories-by-charles-hamlton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. Paul and his Landlord

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Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here