Porterhouse at St. Tom’s

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z used study (21)

Please come in, sorry you caught me making some notes for a story I’m writing. It’s about something that happened last evening. As you know I’m the head boy here at St. Tom’s school and that means one of my duties is to keep discipline among the boys here. Usually, that means punishing the younger boys when they step out of line. I probably swipe my rattan cane across two or three backsides a day. The actual number can depend on how rowdy the juniors are in the dormitory at night. My record is twelve boys in twenty minutes.

But that’s not the story I want to tell you today. This one’s about a fellow in the sixth-form. A chap called Porterhouse. He’s eighteen – the same age as me – and he’s a right rum fellow. He’s been at St. Tom’s all his life, but he’s never learned to behave himself. Most of the time he’s  worse than the juniors. Of course, he was never made a prefect. How could you put a chap like Porterhouse in charge of the youngsters.

You see what happened was this. It was on Tuesday that I sat alone in my study. It was a warm evening and I had completed my Greek essay and my mind was so engaged with it that I found it difficult to rest. I decided to take a stroll. I am not in the habit of patrolling the house after lights out. It is my prefects’ duty is to keep good order in the house. To that end they are expected to account that each boy is safely tucked up in his bed before they too retire for the night.

All was quiet, as indeed it should be at that hour. For no particular reason that I can recall, I ventured down the passageway that led to the junior studies. I could tell at once something was amiss. A shaft of light gleamed beneath the door of number five. As I approached my nostrils were assailed by a familiar scent. An aroma that was unwelcome in the junior boys’ studies. It was the smell of cigarette smoke.

I gripped the handle and twisted it. The door would not budge. It was locked. There was some illegal activity afoot. I hammered the palm of my hand against the heavy wooden panel.

Inside the study a little poker party was suddenly startled. Tracey jumped up, his hand of cards slipping from his fingers. “What the …” he exclaimed.

Wright, Amber and Prior were all on their feet. That sound could mean only one thing: either a prefect or a master had discovered their game.

“What dashed bad luck,” breathed Wright. “Quick get the cards out of sight.”

I banged again, somewhat louder this time. “Open up in there! Open up I say!”

“The smoke; we can’t clear the smoke,” hissed Amber, waving his arms around like a demon.

“Keep the door locked Wright,” whispered Prior. “Tell him you’ve dropped the key to make us some time.”

I continued banging.

“All right Sir,” called out Wright in a shaky voice while his chums frantically hurried cards and cigarettes out of sight. “I … I’ve dropped the key.”

I called out, “You will open this door immediately Wright. At once, or the consequences for you all will be very grave indeed.”

I heard the scrapping of the key in the lock and slowly the door eased ajar; but only by an inch. I pushed it open and strode into the study.

Four ashen-faced fourteen-year-old boys stood before me. They were dressed in their regulation red-and-white-striped pyjamas. The evidence of their crimes lay all around them. A deck of playing cards and hastily extinguished cigarettes. And also, cowering in the far corner of the room hoping against hope that he would not be spotted was Porterhouse.

I sent the four youngsters away. I would deal with them next day. My concern now was Porterhouse.

“Go wait outside my study,” I ordered. He looked sheepish as well he might. It is one thing for senior boys to play cards amongst themselves, but to take part in an illegal game with junior boys present. And smoking cigarettes! Can there be a greater crime that can be committed at boarding school than smoking cigarettes? Certainly, I for one cannot imagine.

I gave it a few minutes before I followed him. He stood nonchalantly, shoulders stooped, hands in pockets, professing not to have a care in the world. He didn’t fool me. “Come into the study,” I snarled as I brushed past him, “And be quick about it.” I unlocked the door and left it ajar. I strode to my desk and took the seat behind it. From this position I could dominate the whole room. “Close the door,” I barked as Porterhouse entered, his casual air, now a little deflated. I snapped my fingers, “Stand there,” I pointed to a spot on the worn rug. He shuffled into position, his hands still firmly rooted in the pockets of his trousers.

I let a small smile curl around my lips. If the idiot thought I wouldn’t thrash his backside because he was a senior boy, he had another thought coming. “So, Porterhouse,” I spoke calmly, “Let me get this straight. You were playing cards and smoking cigarettes with the junior boys.” Porterhouse remained silent. I hadn’t made it clear enough that this statement was meant as a question. I swear I saw the slightest smirk on his face. “Take your hands out of your pockets,” I growled. His nostrils flared, but with great ceremony he did as I instructed. For a moment he couldn’t decide where to put his arms. He tried leaving them at is sides, almost as if standing to attention. I suspect he thought this made him look too much like a supplicant, because within seconds he decided to clasp his hands behind his back. He was now poised rather like a minor member of the Royal Family.

I tried again, “Do you admit that you were playing cards and smoking cigarettes with the juniors?” This time my question was clear; Porterhouse would have to answer. He shrugged his shoulders. It was a noncommittal answer. That got my goat. “C’mon, Porterhouse,” I flared, “You were caught red-handed.”

He grinned insolently, “Then, I suppose it must be true.”

“Don’t get fresh with me, Porterhouse,” I barked, fighting to retain my temper. “You are in enough trouble as it is.”

“Oh,” his eyebrows raised heavenwards, “really?”

He was trying to goad me and he succeeded. “Yes, really!” I retorted, “I am  going to beat you Porterhouse, how do you like that?”

His face coloured, but he was full of spunk. “I don’t think so. I am a senior. Senior boys aren’t caned.”

That was true up to a point, indeed no senior boy had been caned in living memory, but that did not meant that he couldn’t be. I did not intend to argue with Porterhouse, so I played my trump card. “No? Perhaps you’d like to tell that to the Headmaster?”

I had won: game, set and match. If Porterhouse refused to be disciplined by me and the Headmaster was informed, Porterhouse could look forward to a severe bare-bottomed birching, followed by expulsion. I had him by the short-and-curlies. It was what our American cousins might call a lose-lose situation for Porterhouse. Colour drained from his face and he went quite pale.

“Good,” I intoned. There was nothing more to say. I had won and Porterhouse had lost. “Let’s say, jacket off, trousers down and bend across my desk.” I rose to my feet and tapped the top of my desk to emphasise my superiority. He stood dumbfounded. “Now, Porterhouse, it is long past our bedtimes.”

I walked across the study to the far corner where dangling from a coat stand by their curved handles were two whippy, rattan canes; one a little thicker than the other and both capable of leaving severe welts across the backside of a miscreant schoolboy. I reached up and took hold of the thickest of the two. It was a little longer than three-feet and had notches every six inches or so along its length. It was dark-yellow in colour and as thick as a pencil. I flexed it thoughtfully between my hands. Porterhouse had not moved. “Jacket off. Put it on that armchair.” I swished the cane through the air to demonstrate my impatience. If looks could kill, the glance Porterhouse gave me at that moment would have slain me. I suspect that only at this moment did it sink in that he had absolutely no choice in the matter.

“Hurry along,” I tried not to grin. He turned his back on me so I could not see his look of bewilderment and he unbuttoned his jacket. He slipped it from his shoulders and tossed it on to the armchair, a half-empty packet of cigarettes poked out from a side pocket. I made a mental note to confiscate them before I allowed Porterhouse to hobble from my study. With the jacket now removed, Porterhouse hesitated. “Stand by the desk,” I jollied him along. “Trousers down. All the way. Bend over.” I confess that by now I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I had never liked Porterhouse and I resented the way he disregarded the school and all it stood for. He refused to be one of the chaps. I couldn’t understand him. Why attend St. Tom’s if you had no intention of fitting in? Fitting in, and learning your place in the order of things, was the school’s very ethos.

I swiped the cane through empty air several times as I watched Porterhouse prepare himself. His trousers were held in place by several buttons and it took some moments of fumbling before he was able to release them. Once that was done, the heavy flannel bags fell easily to his feet. His off-white woollen drawers hung loosely and I was unable to discern even the outline of his private parts beneath them.

“Bend over Porterhouse,” I called and without further hesitation my eighteen-year-old school fellow swivelled on the heels of his leather shoes, faced the desk and slowly lowered himself forward. I had not instructed him to do so, but he chose to lay flat on his stomach and stretch his arms ahead of him and grip the far end with his fingers. At first he rested his chin on the cold wooden desktop, but realising this was an uncomfortable position to hold, he turned his head so that his left cheek rested on the desk and he gazed towards a picture of the King that was on the wall.

I tucked the cane under my arm and approached him. I took hold of the end of his shirt and tugged it up his back and away from my target area. Porterhouse’s body shivered, but he soon recovered. In this prone position the loose wool of his drawers had tightened a little against his beefy buttocks. I gripped hold of the waistband and Porterhouse let out an audible gasp. The sucker must have thought I was about to rip down his drawers so I could thrash him on the bared bottom. This was not my intention and instead I pulled the drawers tight so that the smooth material showed the outline of his cheeks and dug into his crack. Porterhouse closed his eyes.

I took up a position slightly behind Porterhouse and a little to his left – a cane’s length. I placed the tip of my cane against the centre of his right buttock and tapped. I was getting my aim. Although only eighteen years old myself, I have a great deal of experience with the cane. I knew that once I took my aim and then raised my cane in an arc away from the quivering buttocks I would be able to bring it down with as much force as I wished and strike both cheeks equally, leaving behind a deep, red throbbing welt. And that is precisely what I did. The crack of rattan against wool-covered flesh resounded around my small study. Porterhouse winced, but otherwise made no movement. Just as I am an experienced giver, it is certain that Porterhouse is an experienced receiver.

I landed the second stroke an inch higher across his bottom. The third went an inch lower than the first cut. His bottom now had three heavy cuts running along his backside in parallel. They would give Porterhouse something to play with under the blanket that night. I took a breather after three strokes to allow their full significance to be felt. Of course, as a younger boy I had been caned on several occasions myself – what boy at St. Tom’s could go through his entire school life untouched? – so I knew that the full agony of a cane stroke was not felt immediately the rod fell. The pain built and travelled from the posterior and through the body. Because of that I waited a full minute after I delivered the third stroke before I laid on the fourth.

This one struck into the soft undercurve. Porterhouse wriggled his hips when that one cut him. His knees buckled and his eyes opened wide, before immediately clamming shut again. I am no sadist. I am aware that some masters like to lay fresh strokes over ones that had previously landed. I am not that man. I sent the final two: one high, the other low, parallel to the others. Porterhouse had a well-welted bottom. He would not sleep comfortably and in the morning there would be marks; not that he would wish the other fellows to know he had been caned by me.

Porterhouse knew the rules of the house and remained bent across the desk until I gave him permission to rise and dress. This he did without fuss. He was unable to look at me while he did this and (kind heart that I am) I turned my back on him and took some time replacing my cane on the stand. This would give Porterhouse the opportunity to furtively rub his aching buttocks without my seeing.

“You are dismissed,” I said curtly and he strode from the study. Only after the door had closed and Porterhouse had scurried up the passageway did I remember about the cigarettes in his pocket. Oh, well, I consoled myself I had still not smoked the three packers I had confiscated from members of the junior rugby team earlier in the day.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Murph in the headmaster’s study

Landlord is sick of the lodger

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

The Tyrant Headmaster Dr Fortescue has set about taming his sixth-formers, Episode one is here. Episode two is here.

 

Bob Lender looked down at the seat cushion inches in front of his face. It was patterned in greens and browns. Autumnal colours.

He concentrated carefully. He needed to focus on something. Such as the large, round, greasy, indentation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of posteriors had contributed to the dent. It was an old chair. It had seen much action.

He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.

His heavy grey trousers were at a puddle at his feet. His grubby off-white underpants hovered at his shins. His school shirt was bunched at his shoulders, neatly tucked away from the target area.

He couldn’t have felt more self-conscious. Embarrassed. Humiliated, even. His bare buttocks were on full view to the room.

He was not alone. Tony Brown and Keith Green stood facing the bookcase; hands on head. Waiting their turn.

A cool gust of wind brushed his naked haunches. The study window was slightly ajar.  The sounds of schoolchildren talking, some laughing, wafted in on the breeze.

He could feel the headmaster’s cane pressing into his flesh. Dr Fortescue was finding his spot. Taking his aim. Preparing himself. It would be any moment now.

The previous day

The prefects shuffled into the room. Dr Fortescue and his new regime had been the talk of the whole school, from the lowliest junior to the most senior School Captain. The headmaster was a “new broom” and they were to be his sweepings.

There were sixteen prefects in the school and each eighteen-year-old boy made it his business to arrive for the meeting with the Beak on time.

They rose respectfully from their seats when Dr Fortescue burst through the door, his gown flapping behind him.

They looked with interest and curiosity at the man who had taken the helm of the school and who had already started to make trouble.

He was an elderly, tall, grim man, but he stood erect. He looked to be as strong as a mule. He had shown as much when he whipped Rodriquez the day before.

He was not a man to be trifled with. He would not budge a single inch out of his way. He was not to be resisted.

His icy gaze was fixed on the prefects. “I am your new headmaster and the school governors have asked that I make changes,” he spoke in a steady monotone. The “ham actor” had been put on hold.

“I find there is a great amount of slacking and idleness in this school. I am going to make great changes in that respect.”

He stared hard at the boys. They were easily intimidated. None was brave enough to return the stare.

But there was an audible groan, from somewhere near the back of the room.

“What was that? Who made that noise?”

There was no reply.

“The boy who uttered that sound is commanded to step out. Show yourself!” he thundered.

Still no one stirred.

“Who was it!” Dr Fortescue could feel a panic rising. Was this a rebellion? Were the prefects about to turn on him?

“I order the boy to stand!”

The order was not obeyed.

Dr Fortescue could not lose this battle. If the sixth-form could not be controlled, his time at the school would be a failure.

“Very well,” he said menacingly, “I order the boy sitting next to that boy to point him out to me.”

The gasp was audible.

No boy could ever split on a fellow. It was impossible.

Dr Fortescue grew crimson with anger.

“This is obviously an organised conspiracy to show disrespect to your new headmaster. For this disrespect I shall punish you all.”

Sixteen teenagers could not disguise their astonishment. But, there was worse to follow.

He paused for dramatic effect. “The whole prefect body will attend at my study this afternoon at four o’clock and I shall cane every boy.”

He swept up his academic gown. “That is all for the present.”

And, he exited the room, leaving behind a room full of bewildered prefects.

Only when left alone could they express their indignation.

“Impossible.”

“Madness.”

“Can he do this?”

“We’re the Sixth-Form.”

“I don’t think we should stand for it,” Keith Green piped up.

“What can you do?” Bob Lender asked.

“Nothing much,” was the general consensus.

“We’ll see about that,” Tony Brown huffed indignantly.

“You’d better not let the Beak hear you,” a boy at the back said.

There was a great deal of angry talk about it, but when it came to the actual point of refusing to go to the headmaster’s study, most of the prefects caved in.

Four o’clock came around too quickly for the prefects.

“Come on,” Dave Axford, who had an eye on the vacant School Captain’s badge, said, “We’d better get on with it. We don’t want to keep the Beak waiting.”

“Yes, come on,” Bertie Price agreed. “But Axy, you’re going in first,” he smiled.

The prefects formed a crocodile and almost marched upon the headmaster’s study. But, this was no belligerent protest; the boys had acquiesced to meekly accept their canings.

Dave and Bertie led the way. The prefects settled themselves. But they were still indignant. A caning; at their age. It was unheard of. Many wished to God their parents, or worse, their brothers, never found out. It was humiliating enough to be beaten without the world and his wife knowing about it.

Axford wrapped his knuckles on the door and dragging Bertie with him, both boys fell into the headmaster’s study.

Dr Fortescue had prepared. He had several thin canes lying across his desk top in readiness; in case one split during the prolonged beating he intended.

His hard cold eyes fixed on Axford.

“I shall give you four strokes each. Hold out your hand.”

Axford hesitated. Only juniors were caned on hand. What was this blasted Beak trying to say? He and his fellows were expecting at least “six-of-the-best” across the backside. They had all talked about it and agreed it would be a “result” if they were allowed to keep their trousers on.

Gingerly, the prefect held out his hand.

Dr Fortescue rose to the occasion. He measured the distance with a keen eye and brought the cane down with a sharp slash.

Axford’s jaw set hard. He held back the cry of pain that rose to his lips. But only just.

The headmaster watched him with an unpleasant eye. Slash. The second landed. Axford’s ruddy face turned quite pale.

z used drawing sixth former caned on hand Hot (1)

“Other hand.”

The punishment was repeated. Axford bent double like a penknife as tingling pain shot from his palm up and down his arm.

He resisted the temptation to kick the headmaster in the shin as retaliation.

He didn’t. Instead, he quietly left the study.

Price raised his hand for the kiss of the cane. Swipe! The yowl that escaped from between Bertie’s lips was terrific. So were the three that followed.

“Go!” Dr Fortescue barked. “Send in the next boy.”

None of the prefects was keen to take his place. But, that afternoon the headmaster caned thirteen of them.

Dr Fortescue might be new to the school, but he knew how many prefects he had. Three were missing.

The next afternoon

The three eighteen-year-old prefects had intended arguing that sixth-formers could not be caned. It was unheard of. But the headmaster had already proved them wrong on that. Where else could they retreat?

“But we’ve done nothing wrong, Sir,” Keith Green protested. “You can’t punish us.”

The headmaster’s eyes blazed with fury. “You disobeyed the instructions of your headmaster. For that you deserve a caning.”

The three boys shuffled their feet nervously. This was not going as planned.

“Yesterday, I caned thirteen of your colleagues. They attended at my study as instructed. They took their punishment like men.” Dr Fortescue’s face coloured. “You three boys did not. And for that you will receive an exemplary beating.”

“B…” Tony Brown started to protest but the steely glare of Dr Fortescue silenced him immediately.

“I shall cane each of you severely. As both a punishment for your wrongdoing and also to serve as a warning to others. I will not tolerate such behaviour.”

Green blushed deeply. There were tears welling behind his eyes.

The headmaster waved his hand. “You will lower your trousers and underpants and bend over that chair.”

“What?”

“No.”

“Sir!”

All three prefects voiced their protest. The cane. On the bare.

“Silence!” Fortescue thundered. “I will brook no defiance.”

“Bbbbb…” the mumbling of dissent continued.

“You will obey my instruction. Or you will leave the school this minute.” He glared at each boy in turn, daring them to defy him.

“Then we’ll see what happens to you. Expelled pupils do not easily secure places at university.”

Dr Fortescue turned his back on the miserable prefects and strode the length of his study until he reached a tall thin cabinet in one corner. It was not locked. He pulled at the door and stood to one side, ensuring the three rebellious prefects had a perfect view of its contents.

Brown glanced at Lender and Green in horror. Green could only stare down at his feet. It was an awesome array of punishment canes. Some were thick and others thin. At least three were with curved handles and one had duct tape wrapped around one end to form a grip.

The good doctor delved inside the cabinet. He felt hot stares burn into the back of his neck. The headmaster always enjoyed the drama of such occasions. The canes rattled in the confined space of the cupboard.

He chose one. It was more than three feet in length, straight and as thick as his little finger. He showed it to the three boys he was about to thrash and flexed it between his hands. Despite its thickness, it made a perfect bow. He was delighted to watch Green’s face drain of all colour.

Seemingly believing that the cane would not deliver the appropriate severity of punishment, Dr Fortescue replaced it and after much rustling, he selected another.

This one was dark yellow in colour and was slightly longer than its discarded companion. It had the “traditional” crooked handle of the school cane. Dr Fortescue swished it through the air, testing its suppleness. The prefects could be under no illusion: it was a mightily whippy rod. It would deliver a very painful caning across trousers and underpants. On the naked buttocks it would be excruciating.

Satisfied with the ability of his choice to perform its task, Dr Fortescue closed the cabinet door and turned his full attention to the three prefects standing abjectly before him.

He was ready. There was no more to be said.

“You boys,” he barked at Brown and Green, “Face the bookcase.”

They did so in an instant

“You,” he roared at Lender. The wretched boy jumped. The headmaster wobbled the cane in front of Lender’s face. “You first. Trousers, pants down. Over the chair.”

Bob Lender stood his ground. Rooted like a tree. This could not possibly be happening. Not to him. A sixth-former. A prefect. He was eighteen years old. An adult.

Swish! The cane flew through empty air, creating an almighty swooshing sound as it went. “Please, don’t make me ask you twice,” Dr Fortescue growled menacingly.

Reluctantly, Lender shuffled a few paces forward toward the armchair. Dolefully, he turned to the headmaster, his eyes pleading. Dr Fortescue had a heart of stone. Nothing would deter him from his mission.

“Quickly boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Bob Lender tried to exchange glances with his two companions. Perhaps if they acted in unison they could do something. Could they overpower the tyrant of a headmaster? Neither boy could bear to look at him. In this moment he was on his own.

Bob stared into the middle distance. There was a photograph of the school rugby XV on the wall. He studied the faces of the boys in the front row as with fumbling fingers, he released his belt and unzipped his trousers. They fell to his knees.

Once again he stood rooted. One of the boys in the photograph had his eyes tightly closed. Another flashed an inane grin, from ear-to-ear.

“Underpants down, boy,” the headmaster’s command seemed faint. As if it had drifted in on the wind from hundreds of yards away.

As if on autopilot, Bob hitched his thumbs into the waistband of the pants and pushed them down; slowly. First over his hips, then down his buttocks. At last they slipped of their own accord down his thighs.

Once again, he could not move. The dreamlike quality of the moment troubled him. Was this really he, Bob Lender, standing in the middle of the headmaster’s study with his naked bum and his private parts on display?

Thwack! Dr Fortescue brought the cane crashing down across the back of the armchair. “Stop this nonsense. Bend over. Now!” Fortescue’s fury was not faked. “Or you will get extra strokes.”

Bob Lender took an almighty swallow of air, fell forward and clutched the seat cushion for all he was worth.

“Legs further apart. Bottom higher.”

Bob wriggled his hips.

Fortescue gripped the tail of the boy’s shirt and folded it up his back.

He stood back, cane in hand. He tapped it across the centre of Bob Lender’s naked buttocks.

Dr Fortescue had caned many backsides. Sixth-form buttocks were a speciality with him. As eighteen-year-old bums went, Bob’s was typical. He was no athlete; he never played games. He didn’t run or swim. His buttocks were not made firm and muscular from exercise. Nor were they yet much affected by a diet of beer and pub pies. That would happen sooner rather than later.

Bob’s buttocks tightened somewhat when he was in a bending position. Dr Fortescue pressed his cane into the flesh testing its “give” and noted carefully how far it sank. Then, without warning, he raised the stick to about shoulder height and whacked it at speed into the boy’s bare bum.

Bob’s eyes popped and his mouth gaped open and quickly closed. The pain sank into his haunches, but he made no sound.

Thwip! Number two followed, twenty seconds later. The teenager closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. His face was scarlet. His bum was turning a deep shade of pink.

Number three fell lower. Bob bunched his fingers into fists and punched them into the hard seat cushion. “Sssssss!” air escaped through his lips. The pain was increasing. It started on the crown of his bum and travelled up and down his legs. It hurt like crazy, but so far he made no sound.

His resolve not to let the foul Fortescue know he had been hurt was broken by the fifth cut. The headmaster made no concession to the lack of clothing on the boy’s behind. Each stroke had been a swipe. It was as if the headmaster was beating a carpet.

Bob Lender let out a yelp, so shrill that his two companions swivelled on their heels to see what had happened.

Green’s jaw gaped open. He had a perfect view of his friend’s scarred backside. The once creamy-white cheeks had been slashed by five cuts of the cane. Distinct marks ran in almost perfect parallel from left to right. Two cuts looked particularly deep. Blood was starting to weep.

Bob Lender stamped his feet up and down and wriggled his hips. It made no difference. The agony was overwhelming. He was spent. He couldn’t take any more of this bare-bottomed thrashing.

Keith Green watched in awe as the headmaster changed his stance slightly. The headmaster’s stare troubled Keith. He couldn’t quite make it out. It wasn’t blank and distant. It might have been the look of anger, but the boy was certain the headmaster was beyond that. This whipping was cold and calculated. It wasn’t in the heat of rage.

Then he got it. The look in Dr Fortescue’s eyes. He was enjoying himself.

The headmaster tapped the cane diagonally across Bob Lender’s cheeks and brought it down with considerable force across the five welts already embedded in the boy’s rear.

Lender shrieked as each of the previous cuts was brought back to life. Tears flowed down his cheeks. The tempo of the military marching doubled. Keith banged his head up and down against the seat cushion, but nothing, nothing at all, could ease the agony.

Fortescue took a pace or two back and from that distance he admired his handiwork. Before him he saw a pair of lacerated buttocks. The cuts would be painful for some time to come. The sixth-former would find it unpleasant to sit on a hard surface for the rest of the day. The bleeding would stop within minutes, but the welts and bruises would be with him for many days.

Bob’s sobbing had eased, but tears still drenched his face.

It was, Fortescue concluded silently, a job well done.

“Stand up.”

Bob didn’t need telling twice. He shot to his feet and within seconds he was once again dressed.

Solemnly, Dr Fortescue swished the cane.

“You,” he pointed at Keith Green. “Take his place.”

Right or wrong, the headmaster of the school had to be obeyed.  But there was rebellion in Green’s dogged look.  But he realised the futility of such a contest, Dr Fortescue would always win.

Slowly, Keith Green released his trousers, slipped down his pants and bent over the chair.

Swish, swish, swish!  Fortescue laid it on. He put plenty of beef into those swishes. They rang around the study. Keith had to clench his teeth hard back a yell. Unlike his pal Bob, he had greater success. Swish, swish, swish!

It was a tremendous “six” and every one of them a swipe.

Keith’s face was as scarlet as his buttocks when Fortescue had finished.

Then it was Brown’s turn to show humility. With a dismal face he bared his backside and offered it up to the headmaster.

The cane rose and fell in a succession of cuts that sounded like pistol-shots. It was as thorough a licking as Fortescue had administered to Brown’s companions. And such a licking as Brown had never experienced before.

He yelled and he howled and he squirmed and he roared, and still the cane swiped and swiped.

Dr Fortescue laid down the cane at last.  He was quite tired with his exertions.

With the prefects dismissed, the new headmaster settled down in the armchair that had just held their prostrate bodies. What a start it had been to his new school career. Every prefect had felt the sting of his cane. They knew he meant business.

Next, he would make a start on the rest of the sixth-form. But that could wait until tomorrow.

On his way back to the hotel he stopped off to buy a half-bottle of “Teachers” whisky. The name on the label always made him smile ruefully. Back in his lonely room, its contents induced a fitful and fretful sleep.

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rory and Alistair – part 1

z used twosome outdoors Vanguard

Rory MacDonald eased down the handle of the dormitory door with his elbow. His arms were full of cricketing gear and he feared one of the bats was about to tumble to the ground.

He was sweltering in the ninety-degree heat. Would this heat-wave never end? In an ungainly fashion he had the door open and stepped inside. He flashed one of his trademark grins; it split his face in two. In front of him was his best friend Alistair. The eighteen-year-old lay face down on the bed snoozing. He was dead to the world – and totally naked.

Quietly so as not to wake his chum, Rory let the cricket gear fall on to his own bed. Then he sat down and gazed in admiration at Alistair’s body. He was a fine-limbed athletic boy; about five-feet-eight in height. He was hairless on his chest face and buttocks and there was merely down on his legs.

Rory shook his head in amazement. Alistair’s arse and thighs were covered in awesome blue-black bruises. Even from across the room the boy could see the distinctive oval-shaped mark left behind by the hairbrush, which clearly had been applied with some vigour.

Rory looked at his watch; it was time they both got going. He hauled himself from the bed and crossed the room so that he stood towering over his friend. Come on Alistair, he thought, we have a date in town.

Then puckering his lips and leaning forward he planted a wet kiss in the centre of Alistair’s firm left buttock.

The boy awoke like a princess in a fairy-tale.

“Ouch! That hurt,” he grinned.

“Ouch! That hurt,” his friend replied satirically, mocking Alistair’s tone. Both boys exchanged huge grins, puckered up and kissed each other on the lips.

“Pendleton?” Rory asked, nodding at his friends toasted buttocks.

“Who else?” Alistair’s grin never faded. He was not about to let his recent ordeal upset him.

Pendleton was the Head of Wilson’s House. And Pendleton had his own way of instilling discipline among his charges. All the boys who were Head of their House at Willadong Academy were allowed to inflict corporal punishment. There was no set law, but by custom and practice the rattan cane was the instrument of choice. Some Head of Houses used a rubber-soled gym shoe on the youngest of the boys.

Only Pendleton used a hairbrush, applied to a boy’s bared bottom while he was draped across the lap of the Head of House.  And, Pendleton did not care about age and seniority. He would just as easily take eighteen-year-old Alistair Crombie across his knee as the most junior fag in the school.

Alistair and Rory were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school. Not that they cared. Temperatures rarely fell below eighty degrees for most of the year; let the “privileged” sixth-formers swelter in their heavy flannel trousers, it was much better to be free to the wind in short trousers.

A short-sleeved white shirt completed the summer uniform at Willadong. Mostly boys did not wear ties or even socks. They would run bare-footed around the school buildings and slip into thongs when outside.

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its myriad rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. They were more suited to the life of the boys in town. They had made many friends in Woolverton and how they envied them their freedoms. None of the teenagers they knew had fathers who would order them to bend across the armchair for six stingers from a whippy cane because they were out of bed at midnight.

Alistair’s blazing bottom was the result of one such adventure. Bored and unable to sleep, he had climbed through the window and taken himself for a walk. He committed no mischief; he disturbed no boy’s sleep; all he did was to enjoy the moonlight and the clear warm air of midnight.

He was spotted and in the usual matter of course he was reported to Pendleton. Pendleton was not such a huge fellow. He probably was an inch taller than Alistair, but a little thicker set. The Head of House was a fine cricketer and could slog a cricket ball way over the boundary. He had great upper body strength which he put to good use with the hairbrush.

This was not even the first time the eighteen-year-old had been across Pendleton’s knee. The first time he had been ordered to unbuckle his belt and pull down his short trousers, he had been bewildered. He had expected the standard six-of-the-best on the seat; probably whipped in with some force; everyone knew that Pendleton was a bit of a bully. But, to be ordered to go across the prefect’s knee like he was six years old was a shock.

Alistair had no choice. The alternative would have been a visit to the headmaster’s study and a thrashing of a lifetime, almost certainly bare arsed and no doubt with the awesome Malacca cane. That could take a boy’s backside off, leaving him in considerable pain for many days.

No, unconventional though it was, Alistair had to submit himself to Pendleton.

The hairbrush had once belonged to his nanny. Pendleton had felt its sting across his own bared bottom many times until when at the age of eight he was sent off to prep school. The hairbrush was the only memento he had of nanny; he stole it from her room the day he found her dead in her bed.

The over-the-knee bare-bottom spanking hurt like crazy, but it was nothing like getting the cane; even when wearing trousers and underpants. Alistair supposed the ordeal was meant to humiliate him. If so, Pendleton had chosen the wrong boy. He dropped his short trousers and unbidden stepped out of them. Then perfecting an air of unconcern, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and lowered them down his thighs and let them fall to his feet, then he stepped out of them too and kicked them a few feet behind him. He now stood naked from the waist down in front of his would-be tormentor.

Alistair was very proud of his body and was not ashamed to be seen naked. His pal Rory was one of his greatest admirers and often they would compliment one another on their anatomy. Rory, for one, had a very distinctive penis; it must have been almost the only uncut specimen in the whole school.

Rory had no idea what was going through Pendleton’s mind as he draped himself across the boy’s legs, lowered his head so he was almost kissing the carpet and keeping his own knees straight, raised his taut athletic buttocks high to receive his spanking.

Wow! Pendleton was in a frenzy. Had some demon taken possession of him? Relentlessly he whacked the heavy oval hairbrush up and down into and across both buttocks. With no respite between smacks, he covered every square inch of buttocks and thighs inside thirty seconds and then he just kept on whacking and whacking.

Alistair had never been spanked like this before, so he was not sure how much it was supposed to hurt. It did considerably, but to his puzzlement he found the pain increased rapidly with the first few dozen slaps and then plateaued. He had gone through some king of pain barrier. After a time, he could feel the heavy wood crunch into his globes but each additional whack did not increase the pain.

The teenager sucked in his breath and waited as patiently as he could in the circumstances for Pendleton to complete his task.

He was beaten quite literally black-and-blue. But, even as he climbed back into his underpants and short trousers Alistair realised the pain had subsided, leaving behind a gentle throb that quickly turned to a warm glow. Some parts of his bum, especially the bit where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to the touch and he might feel the spanking for some time when he sat down on a hard surface.

Pendleton was a young man of few words and he dismissed Alistair without benefit of a lecture. As he exited the study, Alistair turned and flashing his sparking white teeth, he grinned, “Thank you Pendleton, I enjoyed that. I hope you did too.” Then he closed the door and ran down the passageway in case the Head of House had resolved to drag him back inside for a repeat performance.

Picture credit: Vanguard

 

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

 

Other stories you might like

Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

A Robust Response

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cigarette box

new story 2

z used boy 16

Sanderson bounced down the narrow passageway, feet slipping, shoulders hitting first one wall and then the next. He had to get away. Nobody must see him. Not in the state he was. If he rushed he could get to his study in time. Undetected.

Victory. He gripped the handle of the heavy door, it stuck a little so he gave it a kick with the sole of his foot. It flew open. He tumbled inside. Thank God his study mate was elsewhere. This was a private matter. He stood unsteady, catching his breath, desperately holding back the tears. His face burned, almost as much as his backside. He could barely contain his fury.

The humiliation. Sanderson, eighteen years old and a senior at St. Tom’s, whipped on the arse by a prefect. Bags down. Underpants down. Six of the best. Bare. He could strangle Tomkinson, the head boy, with his bare hands.

His head throbbed almost as much as his bum. Carefully, he loosened his bags and let them slip a little. Then, oh so gingerly, he eased his cotton undershorts, away from his savaged buttocks. He grimaced, they had stuck against a weeping welt. Six thick dark red stripes decorated his rear end. Each about a quarter of an inch thick, running in perfect parallel from left to right. An objective observer would say Tomkinson was an expert; the boy knew his business.

Sanderson fastened up his bags and gripped the edge of the study table, suddenly, unexpectedly, choked-up tears washed down his face as the events of that afternoon flashed through his mind.

It had started some days earlier. Tomkinson was newly appointed as Head Boy of St. Tom’s and eager to ingratiate himself with the headmaster who had himself recently been elevated to the position. Some stand had to be taken. Tomkinson needed to exert his authority. Old Bean (as the head was affectionately known by the boys) had a strong aversion to cigarette smoking. His loathing was not for him a personal matter. Smoking was (naturally) banned among the boys; he would have stopped masters puffing as well is he had been able, but that would be an imposition too far.

So, behold the word came from on high: a boy caught smoking (or indeed merely in possession of cigarettes) could expect the severest punishment. Now, there was not much new about Old Bean’s instruction. Schoolboys had been beaten since time immemorial for the offence. Tomkinson, in his eagerness to please, went a stage further. The rule would apply to any boy – junior, or senior. The Sixth-Form had been warned.

In later life Tomkinson would become a fine administrator in a far-flung British colony. He learned some of the techniques of using power at St. Tom’s. A squad of spies, of squealers if you will, fed him titbits of information.

So it was on the afternoon in question that Tomkinson raided Sanderson’s study. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the tell-tale aroma. None; the study was clear. Driven by a determination that someone must suffer, he shrieked, “Open the cupboards, Sanderson. All of them.”

“Oh for the love of God! Tomkinson,” Sanderson leaned back in his armchair. “What’s this all about?”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain Sanderson. You know very well. Smoking.”

The eighteen-year-old blanched.

“If you do not open these cupboards, drawers too, I shall do it myself.” Not waiting for a response, he strode to an old worn cabinet and tugged open the door. Inside was a small wooden box of cigarettes, just as his spy had reported.

“If smoking is going on in this study, there’s going to be a whopping!  Sanderson, are these cigarettes yours?”

“Certainly not!” answered Sanderson coolly. “I have no idea how they got there.”

“Very well!” said Tomkinson.  “You deny it.  The matter will have to go before the headmaster then!  It’s between you two, and the Head will sift it out.”

He turned to the door.

“Hold on, Tomkinson!’? muttered Sanderson.  His sallow face was pale.  Sanderson of the Sixth did not want to go before the Head.  Sanderson had too many shady secrets to keep, for that.  Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than smoking in the study.  A fellow who continually, and with cynical indifference broke all the rules of the school, had to be careful.

Tomkinson looked round. “Hold on? he said. “What for?”

Sanderson gasped a little. “Look here, suppose a fellow had a box of cigarettes in his study?, he muttered. “No need to make a song and a dance about it.  I daresay you could scare up a few in the Sixth, if you looked.”

“Possibly!” said Tomkinson.  “If I find any in the Sixth, there will be trouble, same as if I find them in the Fifth!  I’ve got certain duties to do, as a prefect, and I’m going to get them done. Were the cigarettes yours; yes or no?”

“Yes,” muttered Sanderson.

“That’s enough then!  I’ve whopped a junior for smoking, if I let a senior off, I should be a rotter!  Let’s cut along to my study, Sanderson.”

Stephen Sanderson stood facing him, his hands clenched.  Sanderson was a senior, a Sixth-Form man, and it was unheard of for a senior to be told to bend over like a junior! The humiliation of it was almost more than Sanderson could bear.

“You can’t whop me, Tomkinson!’, he muttered thickly.  “You know you can’t!  A Sixth-Form man …”

Tomkinson curved the cane in his hands menacingly. “Will you bend over the chair?”

“You can call a Prefects’ Meeting and have me up!” muttered Sanderson.  “I’ll stand for that!  But …”

“You’ll bend over that chair, and take six just as if you were a sneaking smoky little tick in the Second Form!” said Tomkinson coolly.  “And if you don’t do it, this instant, I’ll take you to the Head, and leave it to him.  If you’d rather be sacked, you’ve got the choice.”

Sanderson gave him a long look. “But, darn it Tomkinson, this isn’t right!”

“Enough. Stop right there. I have given you every opportunity. Now, lower your bags and underwear.”

White as a sheet with rage and humiliation, Sanderson’s mouth gaped open.

“You have only yourself to blame, for this,” Tomkinson swiped the heavy crook-handled cane and pointed it at the dusty armchair.

Sanderson winced. The brute! Tomkinson was drunk with power.

“Tomkinson,” he muttered.

“Nothing for you to say.” interrupted the Head Boy as he swished the cane through the air.

A gasp came from Sanderson.  In a fury he ripped down his own bags, leaving them in a heap at his feet. The ferocity of his anger blinded him as he sent his drawers in the same direction.

He dived over the back of the armchair.

Tomkinson stood his ground, waiting patiently for his fellow eighteen-year-old senior schoolboy to prepare himself. The boy’s buttocks were small and round and perfectly white. A tusk of dark hair crawled along his crack.

Tomkinson swiped the ashplant in the air.  It came down with a loud whack on Stephen Sanderson’s naked haunches. A groan came from Sanderson. A dark red line furrowed both cheeks.

z used cane prefect Mag (95)

Sanderson set his face for the second stroke. Six strokes fell; six of the best.  Sanderson remained motionless, bent over the chair, his face colourless with fury.  He tried his hardest to keep back a sound; it was too bitterly humiliating to yell like a junior under the cane!  But hard as he was by nature, he was not tough physically, and he could not bear pain. In spite of himself, he gave a yell at the fourth swipe, and a ringing howl at the fifth.

The study door opened, and Jackson, Tomkinson’s deputy, looked in. “What’s this howling row about?” asked Jackson staring.

“Why-what-what.”

“Get out!” snapped Tomkinson.

“Oh, my only hat!” gasped Jackson and he got out and went back to his study in a state of dazed amazement, to tell Potter and Greene that Tomkinson was whopping a Sixth Form man.

Whack!  The last swipe fell followed by a howl from Sanderson. Tomkinson tucked the cane under his arm.  “That’s a tip!” he said grimly.  “I’ve had my eye on you a long time, Sanderson. You’ve got off with a whopping this time – next time you’ll go before the Head, and you know what that means.”

Sanderson stood and stared at him.  Where it had once been ghostly white, his face now blazed scarlet. He dressed. He was hurt, and he wriggled painfully.  But that was not the worst.

He had been “whopped”  like a junior – he, a Sixth Form man, a senior! Jackson – that ass, Jackson – had actually witnessed the whopping, and would be talking of it up and down the passages and studies. All St. Tom’s would know about it in under an hour.

Sanderson clenched his hands with fury.  He had not dared to resist. The penalty for punching Tomkinson would be the sack, short and sharp.  Neither would it have helped him, for the stalwart Head Boy of St. Tom’s could have handled the weedy slacker almost like an infant. He dared not even think of standing up to Tomkinson in the gym with the gloves on; he could not have hoped to get the better in a scrap, and he hated getting hurt.

There was nothing he could do – nothing – but swallow his rage and humiliation, and “mind his step” in the future.

 

Picture credits: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Memories of Uncle Edgar

Over the headmaster’s knee

My father’s legacy

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Uploaded to YouTube

z used adult schoolboy shorts holding cane

I think it all started with The Dudes. Do you remember them? They were a band that was hot for a couple of years. Their “thing” was that they all dressed in grey short trousers, the kind that schoolboys wore in the olden days.

Short trousers became very fashionable. Clubs would be full of students dressed up like eight-year-olds. The girls loved it. Men in smart short trousers are very sexy, apparently.

They were not school uniforms. You usually wore a smart coloured shirt and a paisley-patterned sleeveless pullover with your short trousers. The Dudes all had neatly-cut short hair and that look became fashionable as well. We were all very clean cut.

It was a scorching summer, my last before leaving school. It was so hot boys took to wearing their short trousers to school. Our parents, of course, hooted with laughter at the sight of us, but which teenager ever wanted his parents to approve of his clothes?

The teachers did not complain. These were properly tailored grey short trousers, not untidy leisure shorts. We looked very smart in blazers, white shirts and striped ties. And as I said the girls loved to see us dressed this way so that some of the boys carried on wearing their short trousers, even when the weather cooled a little.

Although the teachers did not complain, some of them ribbed us a little about ‘old-fashioned values’ and asked when we were going to do our National Service. That went above our heads, but Mr Figgis, our history teacher, soon put us right on that.

We all loved Mr Figgis. He was a great teacher and we all owed him a lot. I certainly did, I would never have got my A-levels and university place without him. We loved him also because he was an eccentric.

Encouraged by the school students’ ‘retro’ look, Figgis turned up to the sixth-form common room one day, dressed in an old-fashioned schoolmaster’s academic gown and on top of his head was a mortar-board and tassel. We roared our approval and he took a little bow, the way that ham actors do. Then, rather like a magician, he swept his gown aside and revealed he was carrying a cane.

He swished it through the air to more hoots of laughter. None of us had seen such a thing. Corporal punishment had been banned in schools thirty years previously and one might have expected all the crook-handled rattan canes to have been put on a bonfire somewhere.

His face split into a huge grin. “Now who’s for six-of-the-best?” This set us off again.

“Bend over Thompson!” George Furness called out, rather too enthusiastically.

“Skirts up girls, knickers down, touch your toes,” this was from Shane Gardner, an especially unpleasant student.

Before we knew it Mr Figgis had surrendered his cane and it was being passed from hand to hand round the room. It seemed everyone, girl or boy, wanted to feel the suppleness of the cane. And, it was terrifically bendy. I almost got the two ends to touch.

Nobody noticed when Figgis left the room, leaving fifteen or so sixth-formers alone together with his cane.

I think it was Shane who got us going. “Well, who wants to bend over? Sharon?”

Sharon decidedly did not want to bend over for Shane and told him so in most unladylike language.

It was Rich who was the first to stick his bum out. It was a comical gesture. He bent at the waist and jutted out his bottom. Everyone laughed as Alex picked up the cane, took aim and smacked it into the seat of Rich’s short trousers.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” Rich pulled a comical miserable face and jumped up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. “Oh, my poor botty.” He was not hurt at all and we roared with laughter.

Rich’s histrionics kicked it off and soon boys were offering up their bottoms. Alan King, the head prefect, took hold of the cane and swished it menacingly. “So which prefect shirked his duties last week?”

The roar from the sixth-formers could be heard all over the building. They knew that Alan meant Wayne Littleton. Wayne was a lazy sod and was always missing in action. It was a prefect’s duty to patrol the buildings at lunchtime and morning break to make sure all the school students were out. Wayne’s prefect partner Timothy often had to do the work on his own.

“Little-ton! Little-ton!” the cry went up.

“Well, Wayne,” Alan swished the cane.

Wayne’s face lit up with a bright smile. He might be lazy but he was a good sort and people generally liked him. He raised himself from his seat with a huge grin on his face. Camera phones and Tablets were whisked from cases.

“Stand there,” the head prefect pointed to a spot on the rug with his cane. The crowd of onlookers tried unsuccessfully to suppress giggles.

Another swish of the cane, and then, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

Wayne’s short trousers tightened across the teenager’s buttocks as he lent forward, placing his hands on his knees.

“Right over. Touch your toes, boy,” Alan played the part of ‘headmaster’ to perfection. Submissively, Wayne stretched down into the required position.

The video recording that was uploaded later to YouTube showed a determined head prefect line up his cane across the very centre of Wayne’s buttocks. This was no piece of fun for him; he was in deadly earnest.

He tap, tap, tapped the cane and then raised it and brought it back down with a swipe. Wayne was not expecting this. He let out a gasp but suppressed the yelp he truly wanted to emit. Unlike Rich, he did not jump up and down rubbing at his scorched buttocks. Instead, he stayed calmly bent over, breathing heavily, waiting for stroke number two.

The sixth-formers were astounded. This was not a joke any more. All eyes stared at Alan. What would he do next? The first cut had clearly hurt Wayne, but he was still submitting himself for more. Alan felt the eyes of his fellow school students’ burn into him. What did they want him to do? He fingered the cane and was about to put it down and walk away when an urge got the better of him. He turned to face Wayne, raised the cane and brought it crashing down one more time on the boy’s bottom.

“That’s enough. Stand up and make sure you’re on duty on time in future.”

Wayne stood up, genuinely hurt, but some schoolboy instinct that had lain dormant for a generation or more told him he must not show it in front of the others.

In spite of encouragement from the boys no girl submitted herself to the sting of the cane. It was entirely boy-on-boy action.

I had my chance to brandish the cane with Peter Levell; he of the dewy eyes and bubble butt. We boys thought he was gay, but the girls all adored him, so maybe we were just jealous.

Peter’s eyes lit up as I picked up the cane and swished it at him. He made no attempt to disguise it. To me it looked like he could not wait to offer me his bottom. His warm smile was encouraging me. He did not say anything, but I knew what he was thinking: you are my master and I am your slave. Given minimum encouragement, he would probably have dropped his short trousers and pants and let me flog his bare arse.

“Bend over that chair!” I ordered

“Oh, yes please!” Peter the Pansy needed no encouragement. In a jiffy he was over the back of the low armchair and wriggling his bum at me. It was a gorgeous bottom, round and fleshy. I am not gay, but even I can recognise a great butt when I see it and it was rare indeed that I could see one this close up and presented to me in such a provocative manner.

I took aim, raised the cane and swiped it with all the force I could muster and thwacked it so hard across the centre of his buttocks that the rod could have entered at his backside and exited through his front.

Peter yelled a piercing scream and shot up from the chair, genuinely injured. He rubbed hard at the seat of his short trousers and tears formed behind his eyes.

“Bend over.” I professed not to notice the state of Peter’s injuries. The wretched boy stood his ground, bent double. If he had believed he would enjoy being caned by me, or anyone else for that matter, he had been wrong.

What happened next surprised me. It had not been planned, but when I review the incident on the video – the upload to YouTube has had hundreds of thousands of views – I am sickened.

Shane Gardner and another boy called Aaron, grabbed Peter and manhandled him so that he was face down across the table we sometimes eat our lunch from. Each boy held on to a shoulder pinning the boy down. He was entirely at my mercy.

The video shows fifteen or so eighteen year olds hooting with merriment. They had never had so much fun.

I slashed the cane into Peter’s buttocks and his scream was so loud it could be heard in the street five storeys below our common room.

By the time the next slash had landed the hoots of laughter had become a deathly hush.

But, poor Peter was roaring. His struggles to get free were impeded by two hefty sixth-formers.

By the time I had delivered the full six swipes, six-of-the-very-best to use the phrase so feared by schoolboys in days gone by, Peter was a wreck. His body trembled as he fought to take in gulps of air. He looked like a fish out of water struggling to stay alive.

His once-dewy eyes shone brightly and his face was contorted in agony. Tears and snot covered his mouth and chin.

Shane and Aaron still held him tightly, unsure what they should do next.

Someone, I don’t know who it was but it was one of the girls, whispered, “Let him go, let him go.”

Once released, Peter lurched across the common room and staggered through the door into the corridor, where unnoticed by the cameras and Tablets, he collapsed.

He did not go to the hospital, but maybe he should have done. Some of the girls took him to Karen’s house and they patched him up there.

I skipped my classes and went home alone.

Within hours the images and videos of our escapade were all over social media where they have stayed to this day.

Next day, nobody talked about it, but I did hear that Mr Figgis did not get his cane back. One of the sixth-formers must have taken it (to do who knows what?). “No need to worry,” Rich, said to me, “he probably has quite a collection.”

Peter did not return to school. We were weeks away from A-levels and I also stayed away as much as possible. There were rumours that he had some kind of breakdown, but I did not know the truth of this.

I was torn apart with remorse. That person on the video was not me. What demon had entered my body and made me behave like this? I wanted to apologise, to make amends, to show remorse, but I did not know how. Many times, late at night, after viewing the video yet again I tried to compose apologies. I could not find the words and any email I might have written poor Peter remained unsent.

The glorious hot summer continued and I worked in a supermarket to make some cash before I went off to university. I would soon be hundreds of miles from home and in all likelihood would drift away from the city of my birth and my home. I knew that if I did not act swiftly and atone to Peter before I left for university, I might regret it for the rest of my life.

Then, totally out of the blue, Peter contacted me. His email was short, but to the point; he wanted to meet. We exchanged emails and arranged to meet at his parent’s house. They were on holiday and he had it to himself.

I was not sure exactly what I would say when I met Peter, but I resolved to be contrite. The weather broke and it was a cool day so I abandoned my short trousers and dressed in sweat pants and a top. His house was on the other side of town and I had never visited it before, but it was not too difficult to find.

In some trepidation I knocked on the door and was met not by Peter but by a young man who was perhaps a couple of years older than me. He was as wide as he was tall with shaven head and from what I could see, every square-centimetre of his flesh was covered in tattoos.

I heard Peter’s voice from inside the house call to me, “Come in!”

Peter had not changed much since I had last seen him. He still had the warm smile but his dewy eyes seemed more hardened.

What happened next will stay with me forever. If this was to be a meeting of reconciliation he first wanted his revenge. I did not blame him for it then and I do not blame him now.

He and his friend, I never was told his name, took me into the front room. It was a typical room of its type, not different from ours at home. Except they had rigged up two cameras on tripods at different ends of the room, both were pointed at the dining room table.

His friend left the room and reappeared almost immediately. Under his arm he had three straight Malacca canes. He stared malevolently at me as he laid them on the table.

“You can get them on e-Bay,” Peter told me unnecessarily.

They were all about three or four feet long and of different thicknesses. One at least was thicker than the one I used to flog Peter.

The moment I saw the canes and the cameras I knew what they proposed to do. I might have had a chance to run for the door and escape, but I realised that I did not want to do that. Peter was right; this was the way that I should atone for the hurt I had caused. He should do to me what I had done to him. He should return the favour, but with interest.

Peter’s friend pointed to the table. “Do you want to choose?” I was surprised by his accent, it was posh upper-class English; I had expected him to be a gangster.

I blanched, not knowing whether this was a serious question. “No, by jove,” he said and I knew he must have been putting on the accent, ‘then allow me to choose for you.”

He picked up the thickest of the three canes and tested it between his hands. Despite its thickness it was extremely supple. In an attempt to intimidate me (it worked) he slashed the cane through the air. Then, for extra effect, he brought it crashing down into the seat cushion of an armchair. Dust flew as the rod sank deep into the soft cushioning.

I could see that this cane would rip my arse to shreds. But, of course, that was the point. I should be reduced to a physical wreck just as Peter had been. I did not relish the prospect, but I knew it was what I deserved.

Peter checked that the cameras were working and his friend produced rope from his pocket.

I watched impassively, as if this were just another YouTube video (which it soon would be) and this was happening to somebody else and not to me.

I did not resist when the friend took my arm and dragged me to the table and then shoved me across it face down. He tied both my wrists firmly to table legs. Absurd though it sounds I was very impressed by his ability to tie knots. Had this tattooed monster once been a Boy Scout?

Neither man said a word from that point on. I was able to turn my head enough to see Peter pull on a Margaret Thatcher mask. The absurdity only struck me later; how many men had dreamed of being caned by Margaret Thatcher?

Peter seemed satisfied with his disguise; nobody watching YouTube would know that it was him wielding the cane. Nobody that is, except every one of the sixth-formers who witnessed his own humiliation at my hands.

Peter was not quite ready to begin. I felt him move behind me and, he did this ever so gently, he pulled my sweat pants and underpants down to my ankles. I was to be naked from the waist down for my caning. A bared-arse thrashing: I deserved no less. Peter’s friend tied my ankles together and my former school friend was ready to go. I tensed my defenceless buttocks as I heard Peter walk behind me swishing the cane. Then there was a terrible crack. I screamed in agony and instantly began to cry uncontrollably.

I was panting and gasping for breath when the second cut slashed into the very centre of my cheeks. I struggled to get free, but Peter’s friend’s knots were tight.

I closed my eyes tight and clenched my teeth, but it was no good. My screams could be heard in the street outside.

The pain was excruciating, worse than I could possibly have imagined. Had I beaten Peter like this?

After what seemed an eternity Peter resumed his position. The next stroke was every bit as hard as the first two and I could feel flesh in my buttocks had been ripped apart. Blood was seeping from my wounds.

“You’re killing me!” I screamed, but Peter was already raising the cane to slash it lower down my buttocks.

I might have passed out at the next stroke, I cannot be sure. Certainly, everything appeared to go black. I have never had the courage to view the video, so I cannot say for sure what happened.

Peter sadistically lashed the final cut diagonally across welts of the other five. The agony was terrifying and I raised my body a couple of centimetres off the table. I struggled with all my might to try to break free of my restraints, but to no avail. Later I would have to treat the deep burn marks on both wrists.

Peter and his friend left me alone in the room. The agony in my buttocks was intense and my heart was racing, I could feel the blood speeding through my veins. Every part of my body ached. I thought I might have a heart attack at any moment.

I shed so many tears there were pools on the table top. I had no control over any of my bodily functions. I felt a surge in my stomach and vomit flooded from my mouth. Moments later my bowels evacuated and shit ran down the back of my legs.

Totally and utterly humiliated, I lay face down in my own filth and cried and cried and cried.

It was some time before Peter returned. I never saw his friend again. He switched off the cameras and removed the mask.

He never said a single word as he undid the ropes and helped me to stand. Then, he put one of my arms over his shoulders and very gently he guided me up the stairs to the bathroom.

He pulled off my top so that I was now totally naked and turned on the shower. Even though he was himself fully dressed, he picked up a sponge and gently washed the shit and vomit from my body.

Then, gently, lovingly almost, he patted me dry with a towel. I had still not regained any composure, so once again he took my arm and guided me to his bedroom. There, he laid me face down on the bed.

He left and returned with a tube of antiseptic cream. His touch was caressing, but he still ignited the agony in my buttocks as he applied the Savlon to my wounds.

Then, he left me alone. The pain was still excruciating. It was as if I had sat down naked on a red hot stove. Even my tiniest movement sent waves of pain crashing through my body.

I buried my head in the pillow. I could smell the hair product Peter used. My tears soaked the pillowcase.

I lay on the bed all night. In the morning Peter arrived with cornflakes for breakfast, but I had no appetite.

I looked across the room at him piteously. He smiled and I could see the sparkle in his eye had returned.

“Don’t fret mate,” he said. “It’s all over. We’re even.”

I burst into tears once more. Yes, it was over. I had atoned.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

First Day At School

z used drawing cane SFIGS (63a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St Francis had a fine academic record. It was a traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite public school. This was such be a contrast to Calmbury, also an independent school, but it had girls as well as boys and attitudes were so informal the pupils were not expected to wear school uniform and corporal punishment was unheard of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand there, in front of my desk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hand me the tie, please.”

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

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

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

The housemaster swished his cane impatiently.

“The chair, Axford, the chair.”

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

“Bend over please.”

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

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

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

“Legs further apart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you very much, Sir.”

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

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

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Name check

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The milk bottle thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

School, st francis independent grammar school,

 

After the party

The parent-teacher association Christmas party was in full swing in the school hall. Wine was being glugged and cheese snacks nibbled. Adam and Steve, senior prefects and bastions of St Simon’s Independent Grammar School, their hosting duties nearly at an end, hurried away from the festivities.

“Quick, in here,” Adam opened a classroom door and ushered his pal into the darkened room. He removed a torch from the pocket of his fancy green and red school blazer and directed its beam into the far corner. “Look what I’ve got.” He leaned forward and picked up a wine bottle. “Goldener Oktober, Liebfraumilch,” he beamed. “Classy stuff. There’s another bottle there,” he nodded into the shadows. “They’ll never miss a couple.”

He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, cut the metal fastening on the bottle and dug out the cork. Then he raised the bottle to his lips and drank heartily before handing it to Steve. The wine was warm, even though the room was not. Steve shivered as the alcohol hit his stomach. Within seconds the bottle was half empty.

The two eighteen year olds perched their buttocks on the edge of a desk, their thighs touching. Their eyes met. Steve tilted his head. Opened his mouth a little. Leant towards Adam’s welcoming lips. Tongues entwined. Fingers ran through hair. The taste of wine intermingled with tobacco from cigarettes smoked earlier.

Adam pulled away. Couldn’t breathe. Needed air. Lungs once again full, he plunged forward. Cocks ached. Steve tugged at Adam’s belt buckle. Undid it. “No, not here,” Adam pushed his pal’s hands away. Not too vigorously. “Someone might come.”

“C’mon, there all at the party. It won’t finish for half hour at least.”

“Okay.” Adam had no willpower. He loved it when Steve tossed him off. Flies were soon undone and trouser fronts opened wide. Aching dicks strained against white cotton Y-fronts.

“Here, let me.” Steve tugged at the elastic waistband pulling the pants over his pal’s smooth buttocks and liberating the erect penis. Steve’s drowned his tongue with spit, leant forward, made a perfect “O” with his lips and took the swelling member in his mouth.

Mr Doughty, the housemaster of Queen’s, needed to pee. He had drunk too much wine and it was going straight through him. The boys’ bogs were close at hand. He would go there. He lurched down the passageway. It was too dark. He reached for the walls to guide him on his way. What was that noise? It sounded like a screeching cat.

He saw a faint light through the window of a classroom and went to investigate. He peered into the gloom and saw two sixth formers; one lying back across a desk, the other leaning into him with the boy’s cock in his mouth.

Doughty’s bladder was about to burst. He rushed on to the lavatories. He knew the boys. He taught one of them. White. What a delightful boy. His cobalt blue eyes could light up a classroom. His crooked smile melted the heart. Often Doughty dreamed of running his fingers through the teenager’s unruly fair hair.

The housemaster rested his head against cold wall tiles as he directed piss into the urinal, his cock stiffening in his hand.

Moments later he was back at the classroom. He shoved open the door and switched on the lights. “What the … ?” Two terrified pupils, trousers and underpants at their knees, gaped.

“I have never in my life … Words fail me …” the housemaster stared at Steve White’s steel-hard cock. Then, quickly averted his gaze.

“We have guests. Parents. School governors …” Doughty’s brain could not communicate with his mouth. His stomach churned. “My study. Tomorrow morning. Both of you.” He closed the door and unsteadily returned to the party, leaving behind two bewildered schoolboys.

The next day dawned brightly and sunbeams hit Steve in the face as he lay in bed. He had barely slept. His life was about to end. He and Adam had talked about it. Expulsion from school was the least of their worries. Would Doughty tell the police? Steve was too scared to go to prison. Everyone would know. His friends would desert him. God! What would his father say? Or do? Steve might be homeless before the day ended.

Doughty had a bad night too. His wife assumed he was drunk, as he often was. The schoolmaster’s mind was filled with the hugeness of Steve’s throbbing cock. When Doughty reached for it the teenager thrust his hips forward. The hot throbbing prick felt like a velvet covered steel rod in his hand; and, when Doughty started stroking it, Steve inhaled deeply, moaning softly.

Doughty’s own dick stood rock hard and his wife took full advantage.

Hours later, Adam and Steve stood fretfully outside the housemaster’s study. Steve could see his reflection in the shiny brass plate. He knocked nervously, waited for the call, “Enter”, turned the heavy handle and pushed open the door.

It was a large room with a desk in front of a bay window looking out onto the quadrangle. To one side was a two-seater sofa; on the other, a wall of books. There were a couple of straight-back wooden chairs in front of the desk, but the sixth formers knew they wouldn’t be invited to sit. The chairs would have a different function that morning.

Doughty sat in a leather swing chair glaring. The two teenagers stood meekly in front of the desk, eyes downcast at the patterned rug beneath their feet. Neither boy dared look straight ahead. They did not want to meet the icy stare of the housemaster. But worse than that, behind Doughty’s shoulders, screwed to the wall, was an ornate rack containing four yellow crook-handled rattan canes.

The boys shifted uneasily. Behind them an open fire blazed away. The heat was intense.

Doughty’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to rip into the boys and tell them they were “disgusting perverts” but the tongue wouldn’t cooperate, except to make sputtering noises.

Eventually, he formed coherent words. “Revolting,” “Repulsive,” “Disgusting,” “Nauseating.”

Adam and Steve stood in silence, guts churning.

“I have the honour of the school to protect,” Doughty was in full flow now. “If I report you to the police, as indeed I could, it would do irreparable harm to the reputation of St Simon’s.” He watched carefully the boys’ reactions. Both were simultaneously deathly pale and sweating profusely.

“So, I will deal with the matter myself. Here. Now,” he growled.

Steve’s face flushed with relief. Adam stared impassively at his shoes.

“It will be a flogging,” Doughty croaked, suddenly his mouth drained of saliva.

He cleared his throat. “Stand facing the wall. Hands on head.” He watched intently as the two teenagers shuffled meekly into position. With hands on head, the tails of their blazers rose up their backs uncovering their backsides. Steve’s pale-grey trousers clung to his buttocks, so that each cheek was defined, the crack sharply divided by the seam of his trousers. Adam was quite different. His trousers appeared to be a size or two too large. Grey material folded across his backside and it was impossible to see where one buttock cheek ended and the other started.

Doughty heaved himself from his chair and walked to the front of the desk. He lifted the two straight-backed chairs closer to the middle of the room and arranged them so they were back to back. Then, he returned to his desk and reached up to the cane rack. All four canes were roughly the same length, a little over three feet, not counting the curved handles. They were of differing thicknesses and densities. He chose the cane at the top of the rack; it was a dark yellow and a little warped from age and use.

He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. His mouth dried once more. He wished he had had the foresight to bring a glass of water from the staff common room.

“White. You first. Turn around.” Doughty swished the whippy cane through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing! sound as it went. Every nerve in Steve’s body seemed to him to jangle. Pins and needles shot up and down his arms. Slowly he turned. He saw the wicked rod in Doughty’s hands and the boy’s entire body succumbed to uncontrolled shaking and trembling.

“Stand there,” Doughty pointed the tip of his cane at a spot by the chair. Steve stumbled across the study, unable to fully control his legs.

“Hands on head.” Steve’s cobalt blue eyes dimmed. He couldn’t stop them blinking fast. Doughty stared into the teenager’s open face. The schoolmaster hadn’t before noticed how clear the boy’s skin was. In his present predicament, it was almost translucent. The wretched boy’s long curling eyelashes beat up and down. His usually smiling lips were downturned into a deep frown.

Doughty hesitated for a second, then he reached forward and unfastened Steve’s belt. He sensed the teenager’s shock as he fumbled with his zip and the front of his trousers fell open. Once done, Doughty gripped their back and lowered them to Steve’s ankles. Steve’s eyes closed. Doughy hesitated for another second before he gripped the back of Steve’s gleaming white Y-front underpants, inserted his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down exposing the boy’s limp cock and balls.

Steve opened his eyes in shock. They moistened immediately.

“Kneel on the chair,” Doughy tapped the wooden seat of one, “and stretch yourself across the back and hold on to the other chair.”

Steve stood rooted. He couldn’t move. His legs shook so violently he feared he would faint to the floor. “Get on with it,” Doughty couldn’t stop looking at Steve’s long, thin, cut, cock. Steve didn’t know how he willed himself to move. Soon he was in position, kneeling on one hard wooden seat and stretching across two chair backs to stare down at a different worn wooden seat. His knees hurt terribly.

Doughty walked slowly around the prostrate boy. With his back arched and his legs apart the housemaster had a perfect view into Steve’s hairless crack. The boy’s buttocks were as smooth as a baby’s and his ball sack and cock dangled.

The buttocks trembled and Steve’s hole winked open and shut with nervousness. Doughty gripped the boy’s blazer and tugged it up his back. Now there were several inches of bared back. It was as hairless as the boy’s bottom. Doughty gave the naked bottom a preliminary smack with his open palm. There was a sound of flesh meeting flesh. The bottom wobbled at the contact. Steve, his face in close proximity to the chair seat, gave a sharp gasp. This was mortifying.

used drawing cane hold (28)

Doughty raised his cane. Bent across two chairs, Steve was in the perfect position for his punisher to whip the cane at force into the fleshiest part of the backside. Doughty placed the cane just below the apex of the mounds and rubbed it backwards and forwards. He felt Steve’s body tense. The buttocks clenched. Steve gripped the wooden chair so hard his knuckles began to whiten.

He felt the cane move away from his bared bottom, there was a second or so pause and then an almighty whooshing noise resounded around the study. Steve felt the intense agony a split-second later. It felt like the housemaster had pressed a red-hot wire into his rear. Saliva washed his mouth. He choked. For a moment he feared he would gag and send a stream of vomit across the room. Instead, a deadly howl screeched from his throat. His body shuddered, his hips juddered and his head bounced up and down.

Doughty observed with great satisfaction as a dark red welt formed across the very centre of Steve’s previously snow-white bottom. Suddenly and without warning a tremendous rage engulfed Doughty. How he hated the pretty boy whose arse was now wobbling in agony across the hard wooden chairs. The same boy he had caressed in his dreams.

He raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Deep red welts crisscrossed the firm young buttocks and Steve yelled out his torment uncontrollably, tears pouring down his pale cheeks. Lumpy red welts blossomed under persistent lashes from the raging housemaster. Steve yelled in torment, his body flailing as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw from the relentless bombardment. His crimson bottom humped up and down frenziedly.

Doughty gave him twelve strokes in total. When he had finished a tense silence fell in the study as Doughty’s eyes focused intently on the Steve’s flogged buttocks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of fair curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. Steve silently gulped in great draughts of air, filling his lungs. Tears flowed like a river going downhill. His chin was covered in snot.

Adam stared in wonder. He had witnessed each frenzied stroke of the cane as it cut his lover’s bare arse to shreds. His own head popped as blood thrashed through his body. He could hardly catch his breath. Adam gaped as he watched Steve’s body wriggle and writhe as the teenager fought to come to terms with the agony travelling through his entire body from his savaged buttocks.

Doughty swished the cane though the air and wobbled it in Adam’s face. “Your turn,” the master growled. “Trousers, pants down.”

Adam stood fixed to the spot. Rooted. No way could he take down his trousers. The humiliation would be too great. Doughty flexed the cane between his two hands and stared intently at the school prefect standing before him. Sweat poured down the teenager’s brow, his face was deathly pale. Doughty’s lips curled. He lay down the cane on his desk and silently reached for Adam’s belt buckle. Within seconds, the trousers and pants were at the eighteen-year-old’s knees revealing his rock-hard erection glistening with pre-cum.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in December 2016.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com