The headmaster’s guests

The headmaster and his two guests sat drinking tea in his study. The meeting looked to be a success. They had toured the school and they both seemed very impressed. Perhaps a deal was imminent.

There was a tap on the door. Blast, the headmaster silently cursed. He had forgotten all about Thompson.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he nodded towards the door of his study. “Something I must attend to.” Then more loudly he called, “Come!”

The door inched open slowly and stopped.

“Well come in boy! Don’t keep me waiting!”

Then a face popped round the door. It was a shiny face, a face that liked to smile a lot. But, not that afternoon. There was nothing to smile about – not when the face’s owner had been summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Come in boy,” the headmaster had now all but forgotten his important visitors.

A miserable sixth-form boy shuffled into the study and then stopped still: puzzled. He had been in this room many times before and he knew entirely what his fate this afternoon would be. But never before did he have an audience.

“Well Thompson,” the headmaster intoned, affecting a grave expression. Like all headmasters he could be a bit of a ham actor when the occasion demanded it. “You know why you have been sent for.” It was a statement as much as a question.

“Yes, Sir,” the eighteen-year-old prefect eyed the visitors apprehensively, still unsure what part they were to play in the little drama that was about to unfold.

“Good. Then don’t let us waste any more time. Go through into Mrs Tomkinson’s office, she has left for the day. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

The teenager blinked, almost in gratitude. So it wasn’t going to be a public thrashing after all.

The two visitors look on in awe as the headmaster strolled to a cupboard, opened it and extracted a thick crook-handled cane. Without a further word he exited into the secretary’s office, accidentally leaving the door open a little.

Both men remained silent, at first not daring to look each other in the eye. Joshua Durnford fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs. His companion Winker Wilson watched Durnford’s eyes shine as almost inaudible voices drifted in from the adjacent room. Then there was the sound of a cane being swished through the air a few times before it landed with a resounding crack. Four times the room was filled with the sound of the swish and crack of the cane. Twack number four was met with a loud yowl!

Sweat moistened Durnford’s brow when he heard the authoritative voice of the headmaster say, “Bend over. If you stand up again you will receive extra strokes, do you understand?” There followed a moment of silence and then two more cracks.

Still the two men stayed quiet, unwilling to acknowledge to one another what was taking place next door. Sweat trickled down Durnford’s neck and his hand shook a little as he raised the teacup to his lips.

The door opened and Dr Burnham returned, replaced the cane in the cupboard and sat down and as if nothing had happened. “Apologies gentlemen, now where were we?”

An hour or so later all three men sat in the VIP lounge of the rugby club sipping their third whiskies. Durnford seemed only to have one thing on his mind.

“Headmaster, this is 1968 I didn’t think they still used corporal punishment.”

The headmaster had not expected this to be their topic of conversation, but answered nonetheless. “It has indeed fallen into disuse in some schools, particularly, I believe, the state schools, but in high-class private schools such as ours, it is an important feature. We find the parents appreciate their sons are in a disciplined environment. It is why they send them to us and why they are willing to pay high fees.”

The headmaster was keen to impress Durnford. He was trying to sell him Draffield Independent Grammar School, of which he owned ninety percent of the shares. He knew Durnford from the rugby club as a very successful and wealthy entrepreneur. When Durnford heard the school was for sale, he had said he might buy it. A traditional (almost old-fashioned) school fitted in with his interests, he had said.

The headmaster knew the school was a robust business for now, but the socialist government had many cabinet ministers who did not support private education, so the future was less certain. If he could sell now he could retire very comfortably indeed.

“Do you use corporal punishment much, headmaster?” Dr Burnham was nothing if not perceptive and he noticed that Durnford appeared to have an unusual interest in the subject.

“No more than is necessary. I find once the boys understand the consequences of breaking the rules, they do not do so.”

Durnford leaned forward in his chair, spilling whisky from his glass. “But, headmaster, do you believe caning actually works?”

Dr Burnham noticed Durnford had referred to him as “headmaster” several times, even though they had been on first name terms for years. It was then the headmaster had the germ of an idea.

“It depends how you do it. If you do not cane a boy properly then you will have failed, he will learn nothing from it. However, if you cane him hard he will learn everything that you wish to teach him. The intense agony of the caning is short lived. I believe it to be a simple choice, a temporary sore and very bruised and painful bottom, or a lifetime of failure.”

The headmaster lapsed into silence and studied his companion who appeared to be debating with himself what to say next. So, the headmaster gave him the lead. “What do you think Thomas?”

Durnford blushed, a little, but this time it was not the effect of the whisky. “I was never caned at my school. I never went to a posh school like yours,” he trailed off regretfully, “just an ordinary Board school.”

Wilson’s ears pricked up. He had been Durnford’s business partner for many years but he never knew that. Wilson had assumed Durnford was a public school man like himself. What an oik, he hadn’t been to public school at all, just some simple council school.

He wanted to know more. “So tell me Thomas, were you thrashed at school?”

Durnford blushed and took a gulp of whisky as if distressed by the question, “No, we didn’t have the cane, nor the slipper. Nothing like that really,” he sounded disappointed and fell into an embarrassed silence.

“More drinks gentlemen” Durnford was relieved that the waiter had appeared from nowhere and they ordered another round of doubles.

“Of course,” Wilson said, enjoying his social superiority, “I was head boy at my public school, St Tom’s, and as such was allowed to cane the younger boys. This was long time ago of course. In the thirties.”

Durnford felt a surge of excitement and the whisky loosened his tongue and the words just poured out. “How did you cane them? How many strokes did you give? Was it on the trousers? I hear in some schools it was done on the bare?”

Dr Burnham’s eyebrows knotted and he smiled to himself. Now, he had the measure of this man.

Durnford, embarrassed by his outburst, swigged on his whisky; the men had not eaten and he realised he was more than a little drunk.

Winker Wilson had himself been thrashed many times at his school. All the boys had been; often by the senior boys who were prefects. Then, as they progressed up to the sixth-form and became prefects themselves, they had in turn beaten the younger boys. Such were the traditions of England’s finest – and not so finest – public schools.

Winker had loved the power that came with being head boy and he told his tale to his two drunken companions with some relish.

“At school there were several places where the chaps would go for a smoke after classes and on this day the prefects launched a co-ordinated attack. We raided all the smoking holes. We must have caught seven or eight boys.

“The worst of it was that one of the illicit smokers was a chap from the upper sixth. Charter, I think his name was. He wasn’t a prefect and so was subject to the same rules as everyone else.”

Durnford’s eyes shone in anticipation at the next part of the story and he shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs in the vain hope that his companions would not notice his excitement.

Wilson relished increasing his embarrassment.

“So, I sent him to my wait outside my study. Poor chap, he was so embarrassed. He must have been eighteen years old, nineteen maybe, and he knew what was coming and there was nothing he could do about it,” Wilson almost giggled at the memory.

“I arrived and instructed him to enter. ‘Face the wall Charter’. I ordered as if he were one of the junior boys. He had no option but to comply. I had complete authority over him.”

He swigged more whisky, studying Durnford’s posture as he continued his story. “I began my preparations. The area in front of my desk was already clear of any obstruction so I placed a small chair about three feet away and sideways on to the front edge of my desk. I fetched a suitable cane from my small collection of five such implements in the corner cupboard and placed it on my desk.

“Charter had of course been caned previously – we all had – but it still came as a great shock when I ordered him to lower his trousers down to his ankles for six strokes across the underpants.”

Durnford was in great discomfort and would have been wise to adjourn to the Gentlemen’s lavatory to deal with his current predicament, but he was anxious to hear the rest of the story.

Wilson continued, “It is best to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, don’t you think so headmaster?”

Dr Burnham was determined not to be drawn into this discussion and remained silent.

Wilson had the floor to himself. I tapped the chair with my thick cane. ‘Bend right over the back of the chair, and put your forehead firmly down on the seat,’ I commanded. Of course, he had no choice and immediately complied. Boys did in those days. They took their canings without fuss. Is it much the same today, headmaster?’

The headmaster grunted, his response could have been Yes, or it could have been No, as far as Wilson could tell.

z used cane prefect Mag (48)

Wilson was warming to this theme, “I waited only a few seconds between strokes, delivering six in a speeded up rhythm, which allowed very little time for the sixth-former to fully absorb the impact of the previous stroke before the next one landed. He did not take it very well, if I remember correctly. He was jumping up and down before the third cut hit home. I don’t suppose his underpants were much use to him.

“But it was over in a matter of seconds. When he stood he gave me such a look of contempt I was tempted to have him take his underpants down and give him another six on the bare. I restrained myself admirably, but did make a note to find an excuse to thrash him once again the very next opportunity that presented itself.

“He might have had contempt for me, but I had won. He was rubbing his stinging bottom like mad when he left my study that day.”

There was silence as all three swigged from their glasses. “Shall we go eat gentlemen?” Dr Burnham was keen to steer the conversation back to the sale of the school.

They tucked into steak and kidney pudding and potatoes, but the stodgy food did nothing to soak up the alcohol. Now, came the headmaster’s opportunity.

Speaking directly at Durnford he said in his experience many adult men missed the certainty of their school days. They knew what the rules were and what the penalty would be if they broke them: a beating.

“It was penitence,” he said. “The crime as it were had been committed, the bad deed had been discovered and six-of-the-best was the punishment. In that way they atoned for their crime and they moved on with a clean slate … until the next time, of course.”

Dr Burnham was ready to take an enormous gamble. On it could rest the future of his school, and certainly the size of his pension.

“Some former boys of the school still see me as their headmaster, an authority figure if you will. They find it a comfort to know that when they need to atone for some misbehaviour in their everyday life, their work for example, I can be at hand to help them with their penance.”

“Yes,” Durnford slurred, “I think I know exactly what you mean.” He stopped, his eyes glazed, it was as if he had lost his trail of thought. “You see, I have this thing, this problem,” he stopped in embarrassment.

“Thomas,” the headmaster leaned forward. “You have my number; telephone me if you need my assistance.” He did not need to wink, even in his drunken state Durnford knew what he meant. “I am usually in my study between four and five o’clock each evening. Please telephone me if you wish to.”

Durnford’s eyes glistened and the headmaster was certain he would soon receive the call. The headmaster was a man of the world and he knew what Durnford wanted.

Next day, the call came and they made an appointment for five o’clock that afternoon, by which time the secretary would have left for home.

Durnford was so excited at the prospect at his visit to the headmaster’s study he succeeded in arriving too early for his appointment. Mrs Tomkinson was still in her office, but hurriedly clearing up for the day, seemingly anxious to be away.

“Oh, Mr Durnford,” she greeted him formally. “The headmaster has somebody with him, but please wait he won’t be a moment.” And with that she darted from the room.

Somebody with him: did that mean what he thought it did? He stood close to the door that separated him from the study, hoping that it did mean just that. He was not disappointed. Through the door he heard the tell-tale sounds of cane swishing through the air, then a series of cracks, followed by gasps and ouches.

He retreated from the study door just as it opened and out came a young man he recognised. It was Johnstone, a young rugby player from the club where he and the headmaster were members. He knew Johnstone because he had been sent off during a match the previous Saturday for punching an opponent.

Was Johnstone a pupil at the school, he wondered. He rather thought he was a bit too old for that and did not expect to see him here. It was all the more surprising because the burly lad had tears streaming down his face and was rubbing his rugby-shorts-clad buttocks in obvious agony as he peered over his shoulder to try and inspect the damage. He had not seen Durnford in the room and drew up the hem of his shorts, revealing a tightly-packed cluster of livid weals along the under-side of his bottom. He had clearly been beaten very severely.

Suddenly, he realised the presence of another man in the room. “Ohhh, Christ!” he wailed, and with his face now as red as his buttocks, he fled from the office.

Durnford paced the secretary’s room, staring at the clock on the wall, waiting and waiting for the minute hand to crawl to twelve. On the dot of five o’clock he tapped on the study door.

The study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece stood two large silver trophies and above it a framed portrait of the Queen. In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared but for three canes of varying lengths and thicknesses and the headmaster’s mortar-board cap. Two armchairs of well-worn leather were to the left of the desk and to the right french windows looked out onto the playing fields. Framed in the windows was the tall figure of the headmaster standing erect with an air of imperious authority.

He was tall and solid, as befitted a former county rugby player. He wore a dark grey suit with a tattered, academic gown over his shoulders.

“Stand there boy,” the headmaster pointed to a spot in front of his desk. “Tell me why you are here?”

As arranged previously Durnford listed the many misdeeds that had brought him before the headmaster. Dr Burnham listened patiently, but was anxious to get this over with.

“What punishment do you think you deserve?”

“Twelve strokes, trousers down, thank you headmaster,” Durnford replied too eagerly.

The headmaster should have expected such a reply, but did not. A proper twelve strokes on the pants would be unendurable by even the most hardened receiver of the cane.

“No, this is your first offence and I intend to be lenient with you,” he said.

The look of sheer disappointment on Durnford’s face unnerved the headmaster.

“But,” he hurried to regain the situation, “If you are sent to me again, it most certainly will be twelve cuts with your trousers at your ankles.”

“Thank you headmaster.”

“Take off your jacket, boy, and put it over the back of that chair!”

Durnford was surprised at his own calmness. With no difficulty he undid the buttons of his suit jacket, slipped it from his shoulders and folded it neatly on the seat of a straight-backed chair.

“Good, now pull that chair over here,” the headmaster ordered pointing to a medium-sized leather armchair.

Durnford submissively obeyed his master and moved one of the ancient worn chairs until the head was happy with its position.

“Good. I am now going to beat you and it will be six of the very best,” and so saying he walked to his desk and inspected his canes. He selected one and looked at it carefully and seemed to realise something about it. He replaced it on the desk and exchanged it for another one. The new one was slightly longer, a bit thicker and completely smooth with the traditional crooked handle of the school cane.

While he did this Durnford waited, the tension of excitement mixed with anxiety swelling inside of him.

Satisfied with his selection, Dr Burnham took a deep breath, as if gearing himself up to perform an unpleasant task.

“Stand there boy. Face me.” He pointed to a spot a foot or two from the back of the armchair.

Durnford stood; his head bowed a little, hands clasped behind his back.

“You are about to receive six strokes of the cane, and I promise you, young man, that I am really going to cane you as hard as you deserve to be caned.”

Then he spoke the words Durnford had dreamed off all his life, “Now, bend over that chair.”

His heart raced and the blood rushed at speed through his arteries so quickly that he feared it would flood out of his body through his ears. Breaths came in short gasps and suddenly his back was drenched in sweat.

The time had come; he had been dreaming of this moment, it seemed, for the whole of his life. He mustn’t spoil the event by collapsing in a heap on the carpet.

He gulped in two lungs-full of air to steady his nerves, then by rubbing his hands together he composed himself. In a continuous movement he leaned over the chair thrusting his bottom firmly upwards for what would be for him the thrashing of a lifetime.

“Further!” There was no reason for the middle-aged man to move; instinctively he had presented his buttocks perfectly to receive the cane, but the headmaster acknowledged Durnford wanted to experience the full drama of a headmaster’s caning.

By the time the good doctor was satisfied his companion’s large bottom was sticking out ideally, presenting the maximum surface for the application of the cane. The chair had accommodated so many boys in a similar posture over the years and Durnford fitted perfectly into the folds of the chair back.

The first thing Durnford realised was that he could not see himself draped over the chair awaiting his first-ever punishment. Nor could he see the headmaster swishing his cane and cracking it into his own upturned buttocks. That was how he pictured this event in his fantasies. Instead, all he could see was the seat cushion that his face was pressed into.

He did however know that his bottom was taut and in the air. He felt the headmaster grab the tail of his shirt and remove it from the waistband of his trousers and push it up an inch or two so that his lower back was bare.  He was truly helpless, just like a vulnerable sixth-form schoolboy in position submissively waiting for a caning. He was trapped and he suddenly became very conscious of the tightness of his trousers around his buttocks.

He clutched the seat cushion awaiting his punishment. He could not help it: his vulnerable buttocks quivered in anticipation.

Dr Burnham was an experienced and very expert caner. He knew how to inflict the right severity of punishment to fit an individual boy’s personality and the crime he had committed, but he was unsure about Durnford. He was a mature adult and could probably endure much more pain that the average schoolboy, but he was also a novice and even a mild caning would for him be “the thrashing of a lifetime”.

He was still unsure how hard to lay it on as he flexed the cane between his hands and contemplated the pair of buttocks presented to him. Durnford might be a middle-aged gentleman but he was still very fit. That was when he decided: Oh damn it! I’ll give it to him in the same way I gave it to Johnstone.

The headmaster took up his position and for the first time in his life Durnford felt a cane tapping his buttock cheeks, He tensed as the doctor raised the cane then struck it hard across the waiting target. Durnford heard the sickening swish then the fire exploded across his bum. He groaned as the stinging pain took control of him.

The head took aim a second time and swung the cane to land crisply on the crown of the buttocks opening up a fresh line of stinging pain, which made Durnford’s fists uncurl and grasp at the coarse fabric of the chair’s seat cushion.

Each stroke was laid on with the same dreadful force. By the third Durnford was unaware of anything except the screaming agony in his bottom. He yelped as the cane made contact but stayed in position, as slowly but methodically the headmaster lashed the senior cane a further three times across the tender buttocks, low down in a tight band just where he would have to sit down. All six strokes were a very narrow strip across the very base of his bottom.

Durnford did not take it well. The caning came with alarming accuracy and devastating pain. His buttocks clenched and unclenched, his legs shook, his feet beat a tattoo on the floor and a strangulated cry echoed around the room. Patiently, after each stroke Dr Burnham waited for him to subside once more, measured the cane across the lower part of the cheeks and struck again with penetrating force.

It was over in a matter of seconds. In the distance Durnford heard the headmaster telling him to stand up and place his hands on his head. Almost unbelieving, Durnford staggered into an upright position, he wanted to clasp his throbbing buttocks, but with tears in his eyes, and hopping about from foot to foot, he obeyed the headmaster’s instructions, placed his hands on his head and moved to stand facing the wall.

The headmaster stared at the back of the ‘boy,’ unsure how this was supposed to end. Durnford had calmed a little, but he still fidgeted in some discomfort. The headmaster avoided looking for a tell-tale bulge.

In time, he decided to dismiss Durnford in the time-honoured fashion of headmaster and punished schoolboy.

“Turn around.” Durnford did so. “Keep your hands on your head. Look at me when I am speaking to you.” The headmaster wobbled the flexible cane he had used for the thrashing close to Durnford’s face. “Remember next time it will be double the strokes and trousers down. Is that clear, boy?”

“Yes, Sir, headmaster Sir. Thank you headmaster,” the endorphins had kicked in and Durnford was on a high.

“If that is understood then please leave my study.”

Durnford did not need telling twice. The second he was through the door, his hands clasped his buttocks and he rubbed away furiously.

The headmaster replaced the chair to its rightful position and then gathered up the canes and put them in the cupboard. Then he sat down in the same chair that minutes before had held Durnford’s prostrate body, wishing a bottle of whisky was close at hand.

He stared through the french windows into the playing fields beyond where senior boys were engaged in rugby practice. How many more times would he have to do this before Durnsford agreed to buy, he pondered silently.

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

More stories you might like

Housemaster’s double caning

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The disgraced prefect

new 5

z used school headmaster study boy by H M Brock

Worthington stood before his housemaster in the dark luxurious study, his hand deep into his trouser pocket. He was the senior prefect in the House and quite used to being called in to see Mr Whitbread; often late in the evening after ‘lights out’ and the juniors were safely in bed. This evening, he supposed, was no exception. The Old Man probably wanted to congratulate him on how well Worthington ran the House. The Association Football trophy had already been bagged and they had high hopes for Cricket that summer. He might even offer him a glass of sherry – which they would enjoy together, man to man.

Mr Whitbread sat imperiously in his leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. He still wore his formal academic gown, despite the lateness of the hour. Worthington hesitated. He had arrived at the study fully two minutes ago, he had expected to be offered a take a seat by now. From the corner of his eye he saw a fine leather armchair was placed close to the housemaster’s desk. He toyed with the notion that he might sit down uninvited. He glanced at it, hesitated for a moment, and then decided to make his move. He took one step and was halted in his tracks.

“Stand there!” Mr Whitbread roared. “How dare you be so impudent!” Worthington froze, startled. “And take your hand out of your pocket! I have never witnessed such impertinence!” Worthington turned and faced the desk to be confronted by an icy stare. He stood, puzzled. This was not what he had expected.

“There boy!” Mr Whitbread waved his hand royally and indicated a spot in front of his desk. Worthington shuffled and stood. No, this was not going to plan at all. The housemaster leant forward in his chair so that his hands gripped the desk. Worthington blanched. Instinctively, he clasped his hands behind his back. He felt like the most junior boy in the House called in for a wigging.

“You are a disgrace to the House, Worthington! I have never known anything like it!” Mr Whitbread thundered. Worthington looked down at his own feet, lost for words. What was happening? He could think of nothing he had done to warrant such an outburst. “Shameful …” Mr Whitbread shook his head violently and his three chins wobbled like jelly. A thin line of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Worthington stood perplexed. What was the Old Man talking about? Mr Whitbread mistook his silent puzzlement for something much worst. “Answer me boy! I shall not tolerate such insolence!” he thundered. Again, Worthington stared at his own feet, “B.. b..” he stuttered, but could not start a sentence.

“A card game!” Mr Whitbread boomed. “How dare you!”

Suddenly, it dawned on Worthington. Card game. The Old Man knew about the card game. “Smoking. Gambling. And much else besides I should not wonder,” Mr Whitbread fumed. A lump rose to Worthington’s throat and stuck there. How had the housemaster found out?

Mr Whitbread half rose from his chair and with his hands firmly on the top of the desk he leaned forward so that his face was only inches from Worthington’s. The boy could smell the tobacco on the housemaster’s breath. For a moment he feared the Old Man would grip him by the lapels and throw him to the floor. “Never before in my entire career as a schoolmaster have I encountered such a thing,” he intoned pompously.

Worthington’s head buzzed. Now he understood. It was all about the fourth formers. They had taken to abandoning their beds at night. They had formed a poker club in study two along the fourth-form passageway.

That night Mr Whitbread, bored to distraction, had taken a stroll through the building. A shaft of light gleamed beneath a door. As he approached his nostrils picked up a familiar scent. An aroma that was unwelcome in the junior boys’ studies. It was the smell of cigarette smoke. Six astonished juniors were caught playing poker. Now, only moments before Worthington’s arrival they had hobbled from the study with their bottoms glowing red-hot.

Before commencing the swishing, and on pain of a bare-bottomed thrashing, the housemaster had ascertained from the wretched youngsters that the poker school was a regular event informally sanctioned by the prefects, headed by Worthington.

The housemaster’s complexion was the colour of prunes. He straightened himself and still glaring at the woeful boy standing before him, he boomed. “You have betrayed my trust. You have dishonoured the position of senior prefect. You are an abject disgrace!”

Worthington withered under the onslaught.

Mr Whitbread shoved his chair to one side as he wobbled from behind the desk. “Scandalous. Disgraceful. Unutterably …” he broke off, seemingly unable to think of further insults. He straightened himself and stood so close to the hapless Worthington that they were eyeball to eyeball. Spittle once more dribbled. “Beyond comprehension! Such behaviour!” the housemaster appeared to have gained a second wind.

He backed away from the boy and unsteadily made his way across the study. Worthington’s eyes followed him on his travels. The boy’s jaw opened in astonishment. The housemaster had stopped beside a hat-and-coat stand. He wheezed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, without ceremony, he reached up and snatched from the stand a long, thick crook-handled cane. He swerved around so he faced the boy and with fury waved the cane through the air.

Worthington blanched. Involuntarily he took a small step backwards. “Now, boy,” Mr Whitbread swiped the cane through the air, it made a terrific swoosh noise as it flew. “Bend over that chair!” He pointed the cane at the chair that stood in front of his desk. Worthington was rooted to the spot, aware that suddenly he was sweating profusely.

Mr Whitbread’s already-mauve complexion turned dark red. He wobbled his chins and waved the cane once more. “I said bend over that chair!” his voice cackled with emotion. “Now boy!”

Worthington felt the room spin. This could not be happening. It must be some kind of dream; a nightmare, he thought. In a moment he would shudder awake and find himself in the sixth-form dorm, safely in his bed.

“I do not propose to tell you again Worthington!”

Worthington shook his head, trying to get his brain to work properly. “But Sir,” he almost wailed. “You can’t,” he said and realising he might have been too bold in answering back to his housemaster, he added, “Sir.”

Spittle flew from between Mr Whitbread’s lips, “How dare you!” he exploded. He swiped the cane through the air, “Bend over that chair!”

“But Sir,” Worthington had found his voice. “You can’t Sir. I’m a sixth-former, a senior boy. Sixth-formers can’t be beaten.” He bit down hard on his lower lip. No sixth-former was ever beaten. It was unheard of. Not only in this House, but anywhere in the whole school. He was eighteen years old dammit. Of course, he could not be beaten.

“Bah!” Mr Whitbread exploded. “I shall decide who can and cannot not be beaten.” He furrowed his brow and his eyes shone malevolently. “I have told you to bend over that chair, Worthington! You must not resist my authority. If you are so ill-advised, I shall take you to your headmaster with a request that you shall be immediately flogged and then expelled from the school for rebellion against authority! I am waiting, Worthington!”

“But, Sir,” Worthington’s heart thumped. The housemaster was serious. He really intended to thrash him.

“I’m waiting, Worthington,” the housemaster had traversed the study and now stood directly behind the sixth-former. He had half a mind to grip the boy by the scruff of the neck and force him face-down over the back of the chair. Decorum won the day. It would be undignified to scrap with a boy in the study. Worthington must bend to his will. Quite literally. If he refused to take his punishment the housemaster would make good on his promise and march him off to the headmaster’s study first thing next morning.

“But, Sir,” Worthington was an intelligent boy and usually more literate than he was at this moment. Words failed him. What argument could he put forward to escape the thrashing? He was guilty as charged. He had permitted the juniors to play their poker games. He had done similar things and much more beside after lights out when he was younger. It was almost a House tradition. It would be pointless to try to explain that to Mr Whitbread. He was ‘old school’. He would never understand.

The cane swished for the umpteenth time. “Do you intend to keep me waiting, Worthington? Bend over, this instance.” The housemaster flexed the cane. It was about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It had notches along its length and was coloured dark yellow. At one end it was shaped in the traditional curved handle and the tip at the other end was frayed. The whole whippy, rattan cane was warped, due to excessive use.

Worthington stared intently at the cane. It looked a mightily-effective weapon. Mr Whitbread was aged and long-ago had run to fat but he was still strong enough to take any boy’s backside off with that cane. Worthington sank a mouthful of air. What choice did he have? Take a caning now, or wait to the morning when the headmaster would almost certainly flog him on the bares with birch rods. Then, once he was able to walk again he would unceremoniously be taken to the railway station and sent home in disgrace where his father would in all probability repeat the thrashing.

The cane swished once more. Worthington took another long lung-full of air and shuffled so that he stood behind the chair. It was a smallish chair with a soft back and wooden arms. It was just the right height for a boy of his size to fit over comfortably. Of course, what happened next would be far from comfortable.

The floorboards creaked so Worthington knew his housemaster was taking up his position behind him. Worthington licked his now-dry lips and rubbed his sweaty palms together. Then, in one continuous movement he leaned forward and stretched his arms so he took a grip of the front end of the soft seat cushion. He spread his legs so that he was able to rest his stomach on the top of the chair’s back. He felt the material of his trousers stretch over his buttocks. He could not see himself, but in this position he made a terrific target for chastisement.

Mr Whitbread took a moment to take in the sight before him. Worthington was one of the House’s finest athletes and his body demonstrated this. Back muscles rippled beneath his jacket and his buttocks, now stretched across the chair, were firm and meaty and his thighs were taut.

The boy’s face was deathly pale and his light brown hair fell in a fringe over his forehead. He closed his eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening. Mr Whitbread slipped the cane under his arm and with two free hands he took hold of the tail of Worthington’s jacket. With some force he tugged it so that it rode up the boy’s back and away from the target area.

“Thank your God that you are not presenting yourself to me with your trousers at your ankles,” Mr Whitbread snarled. He stood to the boy’s side and gently rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the highest part of the cheeks. Satisfied that he had his aim, he gently lifted the cane until it was at shoulder height, then swiped it down with all the energy he had. The cane thwapped against the tightly-presented backside and bounced away. It sounded like a pistol shot. A wide, white line formed across the seat of the trousers. Worthington gasped and held on tighter to the chair.

Mr Whitbread frowned. He was not sure of the quality of his performance. His aim was true, but had he struck with sufficient force? He sawed the cane across the meaty buttocks once more, this time about an inch lower than the first. He lifted the cane away in an arc and swiped it home with all the vim he could muster. The boy yelped. His bottom shook violently and his knees buckled. Mr Whitbread silently congratulated himself on a job well done.

Fortified by this success, he whipped the third stroke higher than the previous two. Worthington’s head rose from the seat cushion, he shook it like a horse bothered by flies. His feet stomped up and down.

Mr Whitbread licked his bottom lip so intense was his concentration as he lined up the next stroke. Swish! Crack! “Agggghhhh!” Worthington could not control himself. The pain was intense. A wide strip of flesh beneath his trousers and underwear was burning like the fires of Hell. Never in his life – and this was not the first caning he had endured at the school – had he hurt so badly. It was agony. Worse even than that time when he was hit between the legs by a cricket ball.

So it went on. Mr Whitbread delivered a full dozen. Twelve strokes of his heavy, whippy rattan cane. Each time the rod fell it left a line embossed across the seat of Worthington’s trousers. The housemaster had no doubt that the boy’s bottom was in ribbons. Welts would be throbbing across his corrugated buttocks. Worthington’s face, once deathly pale, was now glowing scarlet. Perspiration soaked the back of his neck. His eyes blazed.

Worthington lay over the back of the chair choking for breath like a goldfish out of water. His bottom was raw; as if he had been forced to sit in a cauldron of boiling oil. He desperately wanted to get up and rub the ache from his backside. But traditions were traditions and he could not rise until his master gave permission.

Mr Whitbread slowly paced the study before returning the cane to the hat-and-coat stand. From his vantage across the study he surveyed the miserable boy, still head-low, bottom-high across the chair. The buttocks continued to quiver long after the final stoke was landed. It gave him grim satisfaction to see the boy so distressed. It was a job well down, Mr Whitbread was relieved that he still had it in him to deliver such an exemplary thrashing.

In his own time, he barked, “Get up and go!” He watched, now impassively, as the senior prefect hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. He neither looked to left or right as he hurtled towards the study door and freedom on the other side.

Mr Whitbread stayed standing for a while, then slowly crossed the study to a cupboard which he opened. From inside he took a heavy glass whisky decanter. He held it to the dim light and confirmed to himself that it was indeed empty. He had cleaned it out early that evening just before he took his tour of the building.

Picture credit: H M Brock

Other stories you might like

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

The Country Club

Late for breakfast

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Porterhouse at St. Tom’s

new 5

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

Other stories you might like

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.

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

What a disappointment!

Housemaster’s double caning

 

 

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