A school-leaving present

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The beautiful grounds of St Francis Independent Grammar School basked in the cloudless July morning, but it was lost on Mr Price, the deputy headmaster. The dour Welshman, pushing sixty, tall and bony, had the usual grim expression on his gaunt face. It was now halfway through the last week of summer term and in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Price regarded as his natural prey – the sixth-form boys – would be leaving forever and be beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made him grind his teeth.

He made a tour of the grounds but typically he did not pause to admire them. He was a master with a mission; on the lookout for any boy breaking a rule (and there were many at the school) so that then he could march him to his study and administer a stiff caning.

But all was quiet. No boy was out of bounds, slinking in part of the school where he had no business. No illicit cigarette had been smoked behind the gymnasium. No boy was out of class without permission. With shoulders slumped, tight-lipped and angry, Mr Price trudged through the entrance to the main school building, heading back to his study.

As he turned the corner from the entrance hall he saw three sixth formers, dashing down the passageway laughing merrily as they tossed a cricket ball between themselves. He saw them, but they did not see him. Mr Price took a short step to his right, ensuring all three bundled into him. He stumbled and toppled to the ground as if pole-axed. He sat on his backside, counted silently to a beat of three, and then roared, “You boys! What is the meaning of this? Rushing through the school like a group of hooligans. Playing cricket! Inside! How dare you!”

He hauled himself to his feet and with his hand brushed dust from his tattered academic gown. It gave him pleasure that the three boys had each turned pale with apprehension. “Outrageous! Disgraceful!” he glared at each boy in turn. “Ha!” he slowly licked his bottom lip, three senior boys, each would be leaving school at the end of the week. “Unbelievable behaviour,” he intoned. “You will all, of course, be punished.”

Oh yes, all three would definitely feel the swipe of his cane – and on their bare backsides. But what luck, one of the three just happened to be the sixth-former Mr Price most fancied in the whole school. Most fancied caning, that is. Tony Phillips: he would certainly be his first treat. He couldn’t wait.

“You two boys, I shall deal with you later. You may go now and I shall send for you when ready.” They dashed off, silently.

“Phillips, you will come with me. Now!”

Tony Phillips, aged eighteen, was indeed a choice victim for Mr Price: tall, handsome, slender but muscular with a mop of unruly fair hair. His pale-grey trousers fitted snugly around his flat stomach and firm rounded buttocks. His clear, open face was now clouded with dismay as Mr Price hurried him along the passageway.

The deputy headmaster’s study was small but functional. A desk dominated one half of it. Across the way were a couple of ‘easy’ chairs with wooden arms and low backs. Cupboards and shelves ran along one wall. The only window was wide open allowing a gentle breeze to waft into the otherwise airless room.

Inevitably, Tony Phillips had been in this study before. The last time had been just after Christmas when he and two pals had been caught throwing snowballs. His bottom twitched as he now recalled that last visit. It had been Six; with trousers down. God! he pondered, would it be bared-arsed this time?

Mr Price locked the door and sat down behind his desk. “There!” he snapped his fingers and pointed. With wide eyes, Phillips shuffled so that he stood the other side of the desk. Mr Price searched through a pile of exercise books, faking interest. This was part of his ritual, not caning immediately but taking his time, allowing a build-up of the handsome boy’s nervous tension, while Mr Price savoured his fear.

“Well, Phillips, what have you to say for yourself?”

“P…Please, Sir… I… I didn’t know. I mean…” the boy trailed off and stared down at his shoes.

“Pah! You behaved like hooligans. Really I should have thought at your age that you would know better. It’s quite appalling, in a senior boy.”

Phillips flushed. What could he say? He knew Mr Price well enough. Matters would have to take their course. He bit his lip. Mr Price concentrated again on the pile of books. At last he pulled open a drawer and dropped the lot inside.

“Well Phillips,” he growled, “this is not your first visit to my study. It is quite obvious that the canings you have had in the past have done nothing whatsoever for you. But I can tell you, boy, I intend to give you a thrashing which you will remember for a long, long time to come. And really I think it’s the best possible school-leaving present you could have.”

He struggled from his chair and stood. Across the study was a tall, thin cupboard. He nodded at it. “Phillips, go to the cupboard and select the cane I should use to beat you.” Phillips felt his ears burn. He hated this, what was a boy supposed to do? The cupboard was full of canes; some longer and thicker than others. All had the traditional crook handle. All were whippy and any one of them could leave his backside bruised for days – longer even if the brute caned him on the bare.

If he choose a smaller, thinner rod would he be telling the master he only deserved a mild punishment? What if he took the longest and thickest? Did that mean he thought Mr Price should whip his arse off?

“Don’t dither boy. I haven’t all day,” the deputy headmaster growled. Phillips closed his eyes, reached into the cupboard and grabbed the first cane he felt. He withdrew it and turned to face his tormentor. “Hand it here, boy,” Mr Price reached out and snatched it. It was a heavier cane, very suitable for the older boy. Mr Price flexed it between his hands and despite its thickness it curved easily. He swiped it through the air, testing its weight. “An admirable choice, Phillips. Splendid. This will do the job very well.”

Phillips stood rooted to the ground. “Take that chair, put it in the centre of the room,” Mr Price indicated one of the easy chairs. It was lightweight and the eighteen-year-old had no difficulty moving it into position.

“Take off your blazer, put it on my desk.” The instruction was clear and calm, Mr Price did not betray in his face that his heart was pounding and his mouth had suddenly dried. He watched interestedly as Phillips slipped the jacket from his shoulders and with unsteady hands folded it and dropped it on the desk. Not daring to look at Mr Price he returned to his place behind the chair.

The cane swished once more through empty air. “Trousers down, Phillips.” The sixth-former had expected this but even so his stomach lurched and through moistening eyes he glanced down at his own body. The pale-grey trousers fitted snugly and he had no need of a belt. All he had to do was pop a button on the waistband and pull the metal zipper. It wasn’t much to ask, but his hands still found the task nearly impossible. They would not stop shaking. A snorted, “Bah!” from the deputy head spurred him on. At last the front of his trousers gaped open and he encouraged them to slip down his thighs. A bunch of keys in his pocket and the force of gravity helped them hurtle onwards to the floor.

The tail of his bright-white shirt covered most of his equally gleaming Y-front underpants. Phillips stood, his heart thumping, terrified that the next instruction he heard would see his pants travelling south to meet his trousers.

Mr Price took a step backwards so he stood behind Phillips. “Bend over the chair boy,” he croaked. He did not see the look of relief light up the boy’s face for Mr Price was staring at the two firm cheeks pressing against the white cotton underpants. As Phillips fell forward his buttocks tightened further so they resembled two hard rubber balls. Mr Price swallowed hard and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

Phillips got himself over so that his hands held the wooden arms tightly and his back was arched. “Head low, bottom high. Feet apart boy. You know how I like it,” Mr Price had recovered most of his voice and he watched until Phillips lowered his head, wriggled his hips and spread his feet until he had submitted himself to the deputy headmaster’s entire satisfaction.

“Right boy,” Mr Price was quiet, as if speaking only to himself. He tucked the cane under his right armpit and with his hands now free he took hold of the tail of Phillips’ shirt and carefully folded it so that it was away from the buttocks and the target area. He paused, to admire the two, hard buttocks displayed before him. He did not try to resist the temptation to  curve the palm of his right hand and gently cup the contours of the right buttock. Phillips’ back stiffened when the deputy headmaster’s fingers explored the crack between his cheeks before caressing the left buttock. Then, Mr Price rubbed the undercurves of Phillips’ bum before polishing the backs of his thighs. Finally, he gave the eighteen-year-old two almost playful slaps across the centre of each cheek.

“The last time you were here you were caned on your underpants,” Mr Price said carefully. “It did not seem to have the desired effect to moderate your poor behaviour,” he paused and took hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants. Phillips’ mouth formed the figure “O” but he spoke no word. “So,” Mr Price voice rose an octave, “we must get rid of these,” and he eagerly whipped the pants down in one swift movement, rather like a magician revealing the end of his trick. “They really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this, do they?” he gasped as Phillips winced and closed his eyes tight.

Mr Price guided the Y-fronts down the back of the teenager’s thighs and left them snagged at his knees. He swallowed hard, licked his lips and took a moment to drink in the delight of seeing Phillips’ naked buttocks for the first time. They were indeed splendid, twitching in all their glory. His full white, hairless bottom was waiting for his cane, crying out for discipline.

Mr Price slipped the cane from his armpit and held it tightly just under the curved handle. He flexed it thoughtfully all the time staring at the naked flesh that would soon be his target. “Keep the legs straight so that the bottom is high. Keep your head well down. Keep the bottom quite still. Departures from these simple rules will result in extra strokes. And I will just repeat that I do intend – today – to give you something special. To remember when you have left St Francis’ A special leaving present.”

Phillips heard none of this, his head was throbbing and the room appeared to be spinning. A strong breeze from the open window brushed his bare buttocks and legs. Nor did he feel the cane as Mr Price “sawed” it across the very centre of his buttocks and then gently tap-tap-tapped it across the fleshiest part of the mounds as he found his aim.

z used cane hold white pants down armchair school Hornet

And then. Swipe! Crack a jolt cut across the full meat of Phillips’ bum. “Ahhggghhh!” He shuddered and wriggled as the fearsome pain burnt into his flesh. The deputy headmaster had not been lying. Phillips had never been caned like this before.

“Keep the bottom still, boy!”

He couldn’t, he tried but his body continued to judder as the pain travelled from his bottom up and down his legs. His temples throbbed as savagely as his behind and his eyes were damp. He gripped hold of the wooden arms of the chair, trying manfully to offer up his bum for the next stroke.

CRACK! It was harder than the first and landed about a half inch below it. He let out a shriek and his bottom wriggled and writhed. His feet stomped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. Mr Price stood back, admiring his handiwork. Two deep, dark-pink lines throbbed across the buttocks. The boy’s cries spurred him on. He tapped the cane across the juddering bottom, lower still. CRACK! CRACK! The cane rose and fell twice more.

After five lashes Phillips had no control and he jumped to his feet, hopping from foot to foot while simultaneously rubbing the palms of his hands across his scorching buttocks. Mr Price stood transfixed, eyes staring at Tony Phillips’ uncut cock as half-erect it bounced before his gaze.

“Phillips, how dare you! Get back over that chair at once. Immediately, I say!” he roared, feigning outrage. The teenager wailed, almost incoherently, “I can’t … it hurts so .. It’s too much … No more, please!”

“Silence boy,” Mr Price flexed the cane irritably between his hands and then to show his annoyance he swiped it against the back of the chair, “How dare you, What are you talking about! I have certainly no intention of halting a caning halfway through. I promised you something special as a leaving present. Now get back into position immediately.” He mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “Really it is unheard of that a member of the Upper Sixth cannot take a caning properly. Now get back and control yourself!”

Now, sobbing, Phillips forced himself to turn on his heels, face the chair and once again lower himself over. “Get that bottom high. Jut it out more boy,” Mr Price spoke sourly.

Trembling, Phillips stuck out his buttocks, showing his master his once-smooth, creamy cheeks, now decorated with five blistering stripes: three running perfectly parallel and the final two at angles where the wretched boy had jumped up squirming with agony.

“Keep still, I shall give you three more,” Mr Price brayed as he tapped the cane across the undercurves to get his aim. He was going to slash these with extra vim and when he was done, he would tell the worthless boy he was getting six extra for his improper behaviour in standing up.

Mr Price took a deep breath, raised the cane above shoulder height, twisted his body slightly and let fly three times. The cane bit deep into the softer flesh where the cheeks meet the thighs. Phillips hailed like a banshee. Surely, with the study window wide open, people could hear the screams as far away as the High Street.

The bottom shone red-hot, Phillips slumped across the chair, snivelling into the soft cushion. “Six more,” Mr Price announced the additional tally gravely, “A senior boy must learn how to take his punishment stoically.” The poor boy was too exhausted to react. The deputy headmaster lay the tip of his cane at the highest point of the cheeks, where they nearly meet the spine and landed one of the harshest stingers so far. Phillips bottom was so raw and his body ached so much his brain hardly registered the additional pain this caused.

Slowly, methodically, Mr Price swiped five more cuts across the raw cheeks, each one an inch lower than the earlier one. Of course, some landed on already throbbing welts and sliced deep into the meat of Phillips’ twisting, squirming rump. Then, like a nightmare it was finally over. Mr Price surveyed his work: the sobbing trembling boy, the scarlet-striped bottom… Yes, Phillips would remember this day all right.

Phillips stumbled to his feet when told to, and still shaking and crying, fumbled the white Y-fronts and pale-grey trousers back up. “’Now, Phillips: I trust that is something you will remember.”

“Y…Yes… S…Sir,” the boy could hardly gasp!

“Because I am very saddened to find these shortcomings in your behaviour just on the point of your leaving St Francis. You will be expected to carry the school’s standards with you, you know, after you have left here, as a living example of this great school.”

Tony Phillips’ mouth opened but nothing came out except for a panting gasp. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Very good. Well, I hope it has been a good lesson for you. You may go now.”

Mr Price unlocked the door. As Phillips went out past him, none too steadily, he repeated, “Remember now,”  and gave the boy’s throbbing bottom a final sharp slap.

Conscious of the heavy weight inside his underwear Mr Price slouched on the chair that moments before Phillips had been sprawled across. Oh, how he would love to sink a delightful gin and tonic. But this could not be. He smirked to himself, that would have to wait. In his mind he pictured Phillips’ scarred bottom. It had resembled a map of Clapham railway junction! Yes, it had been a very fine school-leaving present … for himself! And, he still had the prospect of those two other charming bottoms to enjoy. He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and slipped his hand inside.

 

Picture credit: Hornet (Sting Pictures)

 

Other stories you might enjoy

Housemaster’s double caning  

Late up in the morning

Late at the office

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Waiting …

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z used corner school study sting (1)

The Headmaster’s a sadistic old so-and-so. He makes you wait, standing, nose inches from the wall. He does it every time. Waiting. What for? I know it’ll be the cane. I’ve been here before. Many times. It’ll be on the bare for sure, this time.

I can’t see him, but I can sense that he’s there. Just sitting. Waiting. Letting me stew. The study is hot. I’ve never seen the window open. It’s muggy and smells a bit of stale cigarette smoke and old man’s sweat. Cigarette smoke. I wonder how many schoolboys’ backsides the Old Man has caned because they were caught smoking. So that makes him a hypocrite as well as a sadist.

I could be standing here for hours. All right, not for hours, but for a very long time. “Stand there and think about what you’ve done,” he growled when he pointed me towards the wall. That’s not what he really means. What he really means is, “Stand there and be scared about what I’m about to do to you.”

He doesn’t scare me. Honestly, he doesn’t. You can only be scared if you don’t know what’s coming next. The first time a boy is called to the study and put through this rigmarole, he might be frightened.  Frightened of the unknown. Will it be the cane? How many strikes? Will it hurt? Can I stop myself blubbing? But once you’ve been through it you know the answers. They are yes, yes, yes and no, not necessarily: in that order.

When he’s ready – and that might not be for some time yet – he will drag himself from behind his desk. He will sigh like he’s got all the world’s troubles on his shoulders. I have to keep my eyes glued  to the road map of Brocklehurst the Headmaster has on his wall. I look to find the street where I live – The Avenue – while the Head takes a gentle stroll across the study. I can’t see him (of course) but his heavy footsteps make the old floorboards creak.

When the footsteps stop there will be a pause of maybe twenty seconds while he rummages through his pockets. He is looking for the small brass key that opens a tall thin cupboard that stands in the corner. I won’t be able to hear the door open, but he’ll make certain I hear him as he puts his hand inside. He’ll rattle the canes around. They make a strange, unmistakable jangling as they knock into one another and against the wooden sides of the cupboard. I don’t know how many canes he keeps in there, but the echoing noise suggests there are plenty.

I suppose by this time the boy about to be beaten is supposed to be trembling with fear; counting down the moments until the Headmaster’s inevitable command: “Bend over!” It doesn’t work like that. Does he know? All I can think of is: “Can you get on with this please, I’m meeting Freddie and the gang at five o’clock.”

I read somewhere – don’t laugh, but it was in some newspaper article calling for the abolition of corporal punishment – that schools claim the cane is only used as a “last resort”. They meant that a boy is put through any number of punishments – writing lines, detentions, you name it – and if all that fails, only then  do they get a swishing. Ha! Not at this school. The cane is pretty much the First Resort. I couldn’t tell you how many rules there are here, there are so many, but it seems to me if you break just about any one of them you could find yourself touching your toes or bent across a desk or the back of a chair. Last Resort – my eye!

Can there be a single boy at this school who hasn’t had his backside battered at some time or another? It’s hard to believe. And it’s never ending. Here I am, eighteen years old, a sixth-former, with only a few weeks to go until I’m free of this place, and still I am forced to stand, contrite, hands-behind-back, waiting nervously for six-of-the-best.

After a great deal of rattling, the Headmaster finally chooses his weapon of choice. This is a farce, of course. He has caned so many boys over the years that he is intimately acquainted with each and every one of those rattans. He could pick one out blindfolded. But, it’s the little game the Headmaster likes to play and there’s nothing you or me can do about it.

The heavy footsteps start again. He is returning to his desk. I can smell his body odour. He is standing close behind me. I still can’t see him, but the swishing sound as the cane flies through empty air tells me all I need to know. He is getting himself ready, flexing the thin rod between his hands. Swiping it to demonstrate its power. It is a standard school cane. You’ve probably seen a few in your time, and if you went to a school like mine, felt the sting across your stretched backside. By now, a boy is supposed to be sweating with anxiety, shaking a little. Overcome with fear. Not me.

As I said, fear comes with the unknown. I know almost exactly what comes next. I’ve been here before. Many times. I have no fear. I think economists call it “diminishing returns”. The fear gets a little less with each visit to the study, until it gets to the point when all I want is for him to get on with it. I have broken the rules, the Headmaster is determined to punish me. He has already jawed me; told me why I am to be beaten. When he orders it so, I will submit to the cane. God is in his Heaven. The world moves on.

“Turn around,” the Headmaster intones. I face him. He is an ugly, old man. His nose is long and pointed and would not look out of place on the face of a witch. What hair he still possesses is grey and sticks out from his temples in untidy tufts. A pot belly strains against his tight waistcoat. He wears a tweed suit that might never have been fashionable, but almost certainly dates from before the war. Over this he has an old and rather tattered academic gown. Among schoolmasters an ancient gown is seen as some kind of status.  I says the wearer has been around for many years; has seen it all, and cannot be fooled.

The Headmaster wobbles his jowls and growls. His yellow, uneven teeth show. “Pick up that chair,” he swishes the cane towards and old, wooden straight backed chair. “Put it there,” he nods his head imperiously at a space in the middle of the study, just in front of his desk. The chair is surprisingly heavy. I have seen it at close up before, but that doesn’t stop me noticing how much of the varnish has worn away in two places: the apex of the back and the seat. Generations of schoolboys have submitted themselves across that chair and held on to the seat for dear life while the Headmaster went about his duty.

I let the chair down with a thump and take a step back. I stand, head bowed, hands once more clamped behind my back. It is a position of respect, but I don’t feel respect. I feel slightly annoyed that I should be going through this. Again, and at my age. The Headmaster swishes the cane again: does he really think this intimidates me? He really is a ham actor. “Take off your blazer. Put it there.” This time he wobbles the cane at his desk. I walk the two or three steps necessary and stand by the desk. I count up to ten in my head. This serves no purpose but I am feeling a bit bloody minded; two can play at amateur dramatics. Then, with a steady hand I unbutton the jacket and slip it from my shoulders. I take my time folding it neatly. I wait. The Headmaster has not told me what to do next.

“Pah!” he ejaculates. Obviously, he had expected me to return to the chair. I count that as a small victory. “Stand by the chair,” he barks. I make the return journey and wait patiently about two yards from the back of the chair. “Pah!” the Headmaster almost shouts, “Closer boy; closer!” Has he realised my little game?

Innocence itself, I shuffle forward. He swishes the cane again and snarls, “Lower your trousers.” I swear the tip of his tongue darts through his pursed lips when he says this. He looks like a lizard. My pale-grey trousers fit snugly and need no belt, so all I have to do is undo the button on my waistband and the fly and they are open. The Headmaster adjusts his position so that he is standing directly across the chair from me. He gets a perfect view of my white Y-fronts as the trousers slip down my thighs and snag at the knees. I part my legs slightly and they continue their journey down to my shins. I stand straight. By now a boy should be shaking like a leaf, anticipation with dread the next command. Not me. “Bring it on,” I say, but aloud.

The Headmaster clears his throat. “Underpants down.” It is almost a whisper. I put my thumbs under the elasticated waistband and with hardly a flick of the wrists I send them south. They stay at my knees and this time I leave them there. The Headmaster’s eyes glaze. He stares at the whippy, rattan cane in his hands as if only for the first time realising he is holding it. I feel a slight breeze across my bare legs, even though the window is closed.

“Lift up your shirt,” the Headmaster’s voice is dry and cracked. My white shirt has long tails and covers part of my buttocks and privates. I take it in my hands and raise it so that I am now fully naked around the Headmaster’s target area. “Bend over the chair,” the Headmaster unnecessarily taps the cane against the back of the wooden chair. The clunking sound it makes reverberates around the room.

I take a lung-full of air, release the shirt and lean forward. I am eighteen years old and quite tall so there is some distance between my stomach and the top of the chair. I arch my back and grip the two sides of the seat. I spread my legs. I know from experience this is how the Headmaster wants me. My head is low and my bottom high. My buttocks are a bit flabby when I am standing, but when presented in this way they stretch and become taut. I cannot see myself, but I am certain I am presenting a perfect target to my master.

I hear the floorboards creak as he moves and stands behind me and to my left. I am pretty certain that my buttocks are completely bared, but even so the Headmaster takes hold of the tail of my shirt and pushes it further up my back. I am naked from my shoulders to my knees. He slaps my left buttock with the palm of his hand. Next thing I feel is his cane resting across the very centre of my buttocks, then it is tapping across the fleshiest part of my bottom. My cheeks tense. They always do, I have no control over them. They harden as a way to protect me from the pain I am about to experience.

It isn’t long in coming. There is a definite swish, followed by a resounding thwack! and a second or so later I feel the searing pain. There is a deep cut forming across my stretched buttocks. It is agony and very soon it radiates from my bum and travels up and down my legs. My heart beats faster. Within seconds the pain is subsiding. That is when the Headmaster flogs me with the second stroke. This one lands a little lower. I rise up on my toes and grip the seat of the chair; already my knuckles are turning white and this is only the second stroke.

The Headmaster takes a pause. He likes to leave some time between each cut to allow the full force to register. He paces the study. It is not a large room and he reaches the far end in no time. He pauses, probably admiring his handiwork from a distance and then slowly returns to his mark. The cane taps across my buttocks, this time a little higher than the first stroke. He lets fly. Make no mistake, the Headmaster is an expert. He always hits his target. I now have three throbbing welts running parallel to each other in a band about two inches wide. My backside is on fire. It feels like he has taken a white-hot poker from his study fire and pressed it into my flesh.

The pain is intense. It always is. There are three more strokes to come. I steady myself. It helps to close your eyes and just wait. Let him get on with it. It will be over soon. There’s nothing you can do about it. You must just wait, submissively and let him get on with it. I am resilient. I know I cannot stop my body reacting to the pain at the moment the cane connects with naked flesh. My hips might wriggle, my knees buckle and my head rise and fall. These are perfectly natural reflex actions. I have no control.

I do not and I will not, yell. I will not beg for mercy. I will not cry. A boy might do any or all of these things the first time he presents his behind to the Headmaster’s cane. That is to be expected. The shock of the experience is too much for him. I am not that boy. I am not a novice. I am a veteran. I have been around the block. I have seen it all before. The fourth cut goes low, into the crease where the buttocks meet the thigh. This is the sensitive “sit-spot”. I will reignite the pain in that cut every time I sit on a hard surface for a long time to come. I do the hip wriggling and knee bending. Blood is rushing to my head and my face must be as bright red as my bottom surely is.

Four down; two to go. The floorboards creak. The Headmaster goes on another wander. I am in no hurry for him to return. I know what comes next. The Headmaster is a sadist. I’m sorry, but there’s no other word for it. In a school where corporal punishment is an everyday affair, he believes that a Headmaster’s caning should be something memorable; awesome even. It is something to be feared by each boy in the school. Once experienced he would never return for more.

I  feel the cane resting across my throbbing cheeks. The Headmaster has placed it so it runs from the bottom left, diagonally across to the top right. Tap-tap-tap. Just this small movement rekindles the burning flames. I brace myself. My temples pound, blood rushes to all corners of my body. Sweat soaks my shoulders and trickles down my spine. The cane is moved away. Swish! Swipe! Crack! I bite deeply into my tongue. My head shakes from side to side, I look like a horse neighing. My feet stamp up and down like a sentry on guard duty. My hips sway to left and right. It feels like blood might be seeping from the wounds where the cane has intersected the previous four cuts.

The Headmaster goes walkabouts. I hear him clearing his throat. I have lost all sense of time. It seems like hours. Every sinew of my body aches. My eyes are moist, but, I swear to God, I am not crying. At last, the footsteps start again. The cane taps across my naked buttocks for the last time. He is placing it across the opposite diagonal. When he has finished I’ll have a perfect “X” mark across four parallel strokes. I hold my breath and grit my teeth simultaneously. Whop! He swipes the cane with all his energy; he could be beating a carpet. My bum is already on fire, this final cut makes little difference. I couldn’t possibly hurt any more.

It is over. Six-of-the-best. On the bare. Again. The Headmaster leaves me still bent across the chair, I am wheezing like a dolphin out of water. The pain is excruciating, but I know that in remarkably little time, it will subside. Even before I am dismissed from the study, it will have downgraded to a searing, pulsating throb. In time it will become an irritating ache and then a warm glow. The marks of the cane might last days. The worst – where the diagonals cut – might not clear entirely for a week or two. My cherry-red bum will swiftly turn mauve and over the coming days turn to a variety of blues and yellows. It is over. I have survived. I will live.

“Stand. Get dressed.” The command comes from behind me. As I stand and retrieve my underpants and trousers, I hear the Headmaster return the cane to its home among its countless companions. Without waiting for instruction, I put on my blazer. My fingers tremble as I fasten the buttons.

“Dismissed,” the Headmaster intones. Nonchalantly, I open the door. I close it slowly. Then, I run through the empty passageway to the sixth-form bogs, howling.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Double trouble – his first time

Jackson

The unexpected phone call

 

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

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

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By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Unfinished business

Mr Percival Audrey the headmaster sipped thoughtfully on his tea and nibbled at a Rich Tea biscuit. A small story in the local newspaper had caught his attention.

Anthony Hastings, aged 27, had joined a firm of solicitors in Brocklehurst. He was returning to his home town.

Hastings had been a pupil at St Francis. He had left nine years before and gone on to university.

Headmasters and elephants never forget. Audrey had some unfinished business with Hastings.

“Mrs Green,” he called out to his secretary in the next room. She bustled into the study, eager as always to please. He showed her the newspaper.

“Please make an appointment for Anthony Hastings to report to my study.”

Anthony Hastings had hardly given St Francis Independent Grammar School a second thought from the day he had left. Why should he? He had studied at a university at the other end of the country and started a new life. His parents had retired and moved to France and he had never expected to see Brocklehurst again. Now a qualified solicitor, he had been offered a tremendous job at Lloyd, Lloyd and Straightmeister, so here he was back in town.

He walked through the main gate. Across the quadrangle was the entrance to the building. The headmaster’s study was above that. From this vantage point the “beak” as he was known to generations of boys could survey his school.

People who knew Anthony at school would have called him a rather timid child. He studied hard and was a member of both the chess and the stamp collecting clubs. He behaved himself and was never in trouble.

This was the first time he had been summoned to the headmaster’s study. He was twenty-seven years old, a successful professional man, but the call from Audrey had not felt like an “invitation:” it was a “summons.”

“Please arrive at five o’clock,” Mrs Green had instructed. “The school will be finished for the day and Mr Audrey will be able to deal with you then.”

She had actually said, “Deal with you.” That puzzled Anthony. It was probably a slip of the tongue. She had meant to say, “Meet with you.”

He had been so flummoxed by the unexpected call he had forgotten to ask the purpose of the meeting.

He would soon find out.

Anthony was not surprised that he felt no emotion as he walked through the school quadrangle and into the building. He had been reasonably happy at the school, but he had moved on with his life. Unlike some of his fellow pupils a revisit to the school did not ignite painful memories of visits to the headmaster’s study. In fact, Anthony supposed he had never once had cause to visit the headmaster during his whole school career.

The school seemed deserted. Certainly, Mrs Green had departed for the day. So Anthony tapped lightly on the door marked “Headmaster” and waited for the call from within.

“Enter!”

Anthony opened the door. Mr Audrey was sat at his desk, framed by the mullioned window. He wore a flowing academic gown over a light grey business suit. On his head sat a mortar-board. The headmaster scowled at the sight of the young solicitor.

Anthony stood at the doorway, unsure how to proceed. Usually at the start of meetings the host would offer some form of greeting. Not so Mr Audrey. He sat steely-eyed.

Anthony took the initiative. He walked further into the room and sat down on the straight-backed chair in front of the desk that was clearly intended for guests.

“How dare you! You insolent boy!” Mr Audrey’ complexion turned purple as blood vessels across his face bulged.

“Stand up This instance!”

Anthony shot to his feet, his own face blushing bright red.

“Stand there boy!” Audrey pointed to a spot ahead of him. Like all headmasters he was suffused with self-importance.

Anthony shuffled his feet. His hands were trembling so he clasped them behind his back.

“You know why I have sent for you!” It was meant to be a question, but in the headmaster’s pomposity it sounded like a statement.

Anthony truly did not know why; but he was so intimidated by Audrey, he could not reply.

The headmaster mistook this as further insolence.

“The tuck shop. Embezzlement.” He roared. “You are nothing but a thief!”

The tuck shop. Anthony gaped. He had genuinely forgotten. He hadn’t thought about the school in years.

“You thought you had escaped detection!” Again a question was delivered as a statement.

Ten years ago Anthony had been considered such a responsible young man he had been put in charge of the school’s tuck shop. It was his job to collect the money and keep accounts.

“Two pounds, three shillings and six pence!” The headmaster roared. He seemed incapable of speaking in a normal tone.

“You stole it. All of it!” The headmaster’s fury knew know bounds.

It was true. Anthony had stolen the money. He took small amounts, now and again. It wasn’t a planned embezzlement.  It just happened. He did it once. He found he got away with it, so he did it again. And again.

He hadn’t counted but twelve pounds and change seemed about the right amount. He hadn’t needed the money. He came from a wealthy family. There wasn’t a starving widowed mother at home. He wanted the money, so he took it. He bought football magazines and other teenager things.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” That time it was a clear question. It required an answer. But Anthony’s body was in turmoil. His heartbeat raced and his breathing was heavy. He couldn’t get his eyelids to stop blinking. Only by holding his hands together behind his back could he stop them from shaking.

Mr Audrey rose from behind his desk to confront the young solicitor head on. The headmaster was a tall angular man. His hair stuck out wildly from beneath his mortar-board cap. His lined face was partially obscured by a greying moustache and thick bushy side whiskers. Spectacles balanced precariously half way down his nose.

“And, now!” he roared, his face inches from Anthony’s. “You return to this town as a respectable solicitor.”

“My God!” Anthony thought as the dire consequences of his adolescent action sank home. He was a thief. If this knowledge became public his career would be over.

Mr Audrey paced the length of his study. “You realise boy that I could inform the police. Or your employers. Or the local newspaper, even …” He left the sentence half finished; silenced by the look of sheer horror on the face of the young man standing before him.

Anthony mouthed silently, “Please, don’t …”His vocal chords had deserted him.

“Pah!” Mr Audrey might be a pompous headmaster, but he was neither cruel nor vindictive. He had a solution.

“The crime was committed while you were a pupil at this school,” he intoned. “I can deal with it as if you were still a pupil.”

Anthony made no response, he was only half listening, his critical faculties dulled by the seriousness of his situation.

“Until this regrettable incident, you were an exemplary pupil. You deserve a second chance. But you must be punished.”

Anthony’s pitiful look spurred the headmaster on.

“Punished severely. Do you accept that?”

“Punished?” Anthony whispered. He had regained some control of his voice. “How?”

“Twelve strokes of the cane,” the headmaster responded briskly. “Trousers lowered.”

“Twelve …” Anthony mouthed the word silently. His head was whirling. His legal mind was working hard. Twelve strokes. Trousers down. Was that even legal? Weren’t there regulations?

“It is entirely up to you, Hastings,” the headmaster paced the room. “It is entirely your choice.”

Choice? What choice? Anthony had no choice. It had to be the beating. Much later that day at his rented flat as he rubbed antiseptic ointment into his wounds, the young solicitor realised for the first time what a generous offer the headmaster had made.

Anthony was guilty as charged. He was a recidivist; he had stolen many times during his final year at school. He deserved to be punished. Anthony always thought of himself as an honourable man: and an honest one. His thieving had been a youthful indiscretion. It was the lapse of judgement of an eighteen-year-old boy.

Undoubtedly, if he had been discovered at the time he would have been thrashed severely by the headmaster. He would have deserved it too. He would have been given the chance to atone for his sin. His bottom would have been blistered and his slate wiped clean.

Now, nine years after the event, the headmaster had offered him the same chance. Take a punishment, apologise and move on.

“Well, boy! Is it to be the cane?” It was getting late in the day and the headmaster wanted to go home.

Pitifully, Anthony nodded his head. He assented.

Mr Audrey was not one of those headmasters who had an array of canes of all lengths and thicknesses bundled together in a cupboard. He had only one rod. Headmaster’s canings were meant to be something special. Unlike his colleagues who punished backsides with standard rattans, Mr Audrey possessed a single “dragon” cane. It was lighter and denser than the rattan and it packed considerably more punch.

He took the cane from a cupboard and flexed it between his hands. “Please take off your jacket and hang it on the door.”

Anthony was dressed in a smart dark-grey business suit with a gleaming white shirt and striped tie. When he removed the jacket, he looked exactly like a schoolboy; albeit an older version of those who usually visited the headmaster’s study.

Audrey moved the straight-backed chair away from his desk.

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“Please lower your trousers and bend over my desk.”

Although Anthony had “consented” to the beating, his body still refused cooperation. His hands continued to tremble and his eyes to blink ferociously. After much fumbling his belt was undone and his fly zipper lowered. The trousers slid down his legs aided only by gravity.

It was a large desk. Anthony had never been required to prostrate himself like this before, nor had he seen anyone caned so he was unsure how to position himself.

“Flat on your stomach. You might find it useful to fold your arms and bury your face in them.” Anthony found the headmaster’s words comforting. No longer was he barking at him.

He did as instructed. As he lay his head down he felt a cool breeze pass over him. The study window was open. Suddenly, he heard voices. At least two small boys had stopped in the quadrangle below the study window. He could hear their conversation.

No! They would hear his beating. It was humiliating enough to be forced to lower his trousers, bend across the desk and offer up his bottom for a thrashing, but to also have strangers listening-in was too much.

The headmaster was making his preparations. Up came the young man’s shirt and it was moved away from his underpants. Then the creases were smoothed from the white cotton briefs.

“Try to keep as still as you can,” the headmaster’s words were well meant. He knew that if the young man flashed about the cane might miss its target. Twelve strokes across the buttocks was the tariff; not across the backs of the legs.

The headmaster found his spot. The buttocks were clenching and unclenching. They twitched uncontrollably. He raised the cane and thwacked it down, drawing a straight line across the cotton briefs.

As headmaster’s canings went, it was not a severe cut. Mr Audrey had delivered harder. Anthony did not know that. It felt like the head had placed a white hot wire across his flesh. He raised his head from his arms and yelped.

The conversation beneath the window stopped abruptly.

Anthony stamped his feet up and down in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

“Keep still, Hastings.” Thwip number two landed close to the first cut.

Twenty-seven years is an unusual age at which to receive a first caning. The recipient is a full-grown adult and presumably has quite a high pain threshold. The headmaster rather admired Anthony’s resilience. Mr Audrey administered what he considered an exemplary thrashing. His whippy dragon cane bounced up and down across Anthony’s buttocks. The young solicitor chewed down on his own arms and managed to stifle most of the yells he desperately wanted to make.

Headmaster Audrey thought this was Anthony’s stoicism, his determination to take his justified punishment. But, Anthony’s motivation lay outside the headmaster’s study, below the window in the quadrangle. The young man did not want to embarrass himself in front of the two strangers.

Nothing Anthony had ever experienced prepared him for the pain of a caning. It was agony, especially as each successive stroke landed on his already swollen bottom. He muffled screams by chomping hard into the cloth of his shirtsleeves. He kicked his legs as Audrey administered swipe after swipe. The fire in his buttocks defied description.

Nine strokes were delivered in carefully timed sequence. Anthony’s backside was blazing. Already, deep welts had formed under his briefs. He would discover later that several wept blood.

The headmaster adjusted his position. The final three strokes were going to be special. They were vicious strokes. He raised the cane high above shoulder height and with a swivel of his hips he brought it crashing down diagonally across both cheeks.

Then he did the same again; from the opposite diagonal. Anthony’s bum now had a perfect “X” branded deep into the flesh. The young man’s shirt sleeve was drenched in saliva, but still he curbed the shriek he truly wanted to let loose.

For the last swipe, Audrey positioned himself rather life a golfer about to tee-off. His whole body strength went into that shot. It landed across the centre of Anthony’s bum. It was the final stroke and it was the one that destroyed his resolve.

A banshee could not have wailed louder. Anthony’s whine echoed around the study, bouncing off the three walls and escaping through the partly opened window. Involuntary tears flowed down the twenty-seven-year-old’s face. He gulped great sobs as he lay across the desk. His long, slim, slightly hairy legs embraced each other.

Audrey did not consider himself to be a brute. He had administered a sound thrashing to a young man who thoroughly deserved it. Anthony would be in severe pain. That was the point of a headmaster’s caning. There would be marks across his buttocks for a considerable time to come. That too was the point. They would be a reminder of the consequences of thieving.

Anthony was regaining some composure. His breathing had eased and his heartrate was closer to normal.

“Get up and get dressed.” It was a stern command.

Anthony hauled himself to his feet. The agony in his backside was terrific. It set off shudders of more pain when he pulled up his trousers and fastened them up. He retrieved his jacket from the hook on the study door.

He stood in front of the headmaster waiting to be dismissed.

“I trust the lesson has been learned,” Audrey was back to being the aging, pompous headmaster. “We shall never speak of this again.”

He held out his hand and Anthony shook it.

“Thank you, Sir,” he gulped and left the study.

A few moments later he hobbled across the quadrangle, conscious of the stares of two incredulous eleven-year-old boys burning into the back of his neck.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

“You wanted to see me sir?”

new story 2

z used drawing cane master (36)

You stand beside the dark, wooden panelled door staring at the glistening brass sign. You see the word “Headmaster” written in gothic script and your heart races. You swallow hard, trying to moisten the back of your arid throat. Your palms begin to sweat. It happens like this each time you are summoned to the study.

You wipe your hands against your immaculately-pressed pale-grey trousers. You could cut your finger on the crease that runs down the front, all the way to your feet. You take a deep breath and with a not-too steady fist you rap your knuckles against the door.

“Come!” The voice from within is clear and imperious. You run your tongue across your cracked lower lip and grip the handle. The door is stiff and you have to push hard to get it to move. The job done, you stand inside the study, eyes cast to the floor. “You wanted to see me sir,” you croak.

Even as the words are leaving your mouth you look up to find the headmaster standing in the middle of the room. He is gently flexing a thick, whippy curve-handled cane behind his back. There can be no doubt about his intention; there will be only one outcome from this visit.

“Mmmmm,” the headmaster often starts a sentence with a mumble. It is as if he is buying time, so he can perfect in his mind the words he wants to say. You watch him carefully.  He hasn’t changed since your list call to the study. His round belly strains the front of his waistcoat, his body is the shape of a pear. When he stands, his weight requires him to roll a little on his heels so he can remain upright. You see flecks of cigarette ash down the front of his waistcoat. How many boys in the past, you wonder, has the headmaster thrashed for the heinous crime of smoking?  There are spots of dandruff on his shoulders. This fact may be a minor miracle since he is almost entirely bald, save for tufts of unkempt black hair at his temples. The study is warm and the windows are firmly closed. A faint whiff of coal tar soap is in the air.

The headmaster takes the cane from behind his back and now he holds it in front of you and flexes it. He is demonstrating that it can make a perfect arc. The rattan rod is a little over three feet in length and as thick as the pencils they use to draw in art class. He finishes his bending and taking the cane in his right hand he swishes it through the air with some force. He is saying to you, “This is an almightily efficient punishment tool.” You don’t need to be told this, you are not on your first visit to the study.

“Perkins,” the headmaster almost growls. “You are a sixth-former, a senior boy.” He stops speaking and peers at you through half-moon spectacles. It is as if he is confirming to his own satisfaction that you are indeed Andrew Perkins, aged eighteen, of the Humanities Sixth. You stand, hands clasped contritely behind your back. You know the form. The headmaster will jaw you for a bit. He will list all your shortcomings and add to them details of your recent misdemeanours. When he is finished you will confess your sins. Only when that is sorted will it be time for atonement. You act as if in no hurry to reach that point in the proceedings. You wait, only half listening to the headmaster droning on. You stare down at the toecaps of your black, lace-up shoes. You notice they are well overdue a polishing.

“You are a senior boy,” the headmaster repeats himself as he often is inclined to do. He shakes his head as if in disbelieve that such a thing could be possible. You are a sixth-former, but not a prefect. You definitely are not prefect material. Too independent of thought. That’s your version of the matter, anyhow. If interrogated on it you will stick to the story.

The headmaster drones on as if he is carrying the weight of all the world’s woes on his shoulders. “Truanting!” He barks out the word as if it describes the worst crime humanly possible. Skipping school. Missing lessons. “What kind of example does that set the younger boys?”

There is a pregnant pause. You are startled awake. You assumed the question was rhetorical (so many of the headmaster’s are). Now, you realise you are expected to say something. “Don’t know, sir,” you splutter unconvincingly. “Don’t know! Don’t know!” the headmaster’s voice raises by an octave. There is more silence. The headmaster appears flustered as if he has lost his place in the script. You continue to study the bare floorboards beneath your feet. “Not good enough, Perkins. It won’t do. Not at all.” The headmaster concentrates hard on flexing the cane between his hands. He does this for a minute or more.

At last he gets back on track. “Not the first time is it, Perkins?”

“No sir,” you agree quietly. Your palms are sweating again. The room is airless and your temples are beginning to ache.

“Last time it was six, I believe.”

He means he gave you six strokes of that cane across the seat of your trousers. You remember it clearly. Each and every one of the swipes. In your mind you try to formulate an answer to the headmaster’s question.

Too late; he is speaking again. “But obviously it wasn’t enough.” He leans forward so that his face is close to yours. You smell tobacco on his breath. “Not enough. Not enough, at all,” he repeats himself.

Now, he has straightened up and is pacing across the study. It is not a large room. There is space for a desk, the headmaster’s chair and a couple of straight-backed chairs which are kept in corners of the room. A worn armchair rests against one wall. Against another are bookshelves and cupboards. The headmaster stops his pacing. He glares at you from the far end of the room. His steel-grey eyes are piercing. The toothbrush moustache above his top lip bristles. “Pah!” he says.

He tucks the cane under his arm. “Take off your blazer and put it on my desk.” He nods toward the desk in case there is any doubt in your mind what he means. Your hands are not as steady as they might be as you unfasten three buttons. You slip the woollen blazer from your shoulders and you fold it lengthways before gently settling it on the wooden desk top. You take care that the headmaster cannot see the pocket of the blazer where the packet of ten Player’s Weights and box of Swan Vesta are.

With that task completed to his satisfaction, the headmaster slips the cane into his hand and with it points to a spot in the dead centre of the study. “Stand there, boy,” he intones. Your heart flips a beat. It does this every time. You have no control of your body. You make the three small steps that take you from the desk to the place where you are to be beaten.

The headmaster’s forehead is wet with perspiration. The armpits of your own shirt are wet too. Is it too late to halt the proceedings for a moment while a window is opened? It seems so as the headmaster is ready to press on.

“Face that way,” he points toward the wall with the shelves and cupboards. You know he wants you to do this so there will be enough room for him to stand behind you and swipe his cane across your backside without hitting a wall.

You do as instructed. You are submissive. The headmaster is in charge. You have broken rules. You must be punished. It is the way of the world. Without order there would be anarchy. Then where would we be? The headmaster clears his throat. From where you are standing it seems he has just swallowed a pint of phlegm.

“Lower your trousers,” he says in a clear, steady voice. “Bend over and touch your toes.”

You do a double-take. Lower your trousers. Crikey! Is all you can think. Now your heart is really running. You feel your face flush and your mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert. “Come on boy,” the headmaster swishes his cane, “I haven’t got all day.”

Your pale-grey trousers fit you snugly so you have no need of a belt. You look over at the headmaster, appealing with your eyes. You speak no words. The glare you receive by way of reply convinces you the headmaster will truck no objections. Utterly defeated, you find the button on the waistband of the trousers and with some difficulty you force it open. The four buttons that make up your fly are easier to deal with. The front of the trousers falls open. The tail of your white school shirt covers your Y-front underpants. For a moment you hold onto the trousers before, aware of the headmaster’s piercing glare burning the back of your neck, you let go. The trousers slither down your thighs and snag at the knees. You part your legs a little and they continue their journey south until they end up as a puddle on top of your shoes.

You stand, unsure what to do next. “Bend over, touch your toes.” The headmaster is in no doubt about the order of events. You know from painful past experience that to the headmaster “toes” means exactly that: toes and not knees, or shins, or ankles. You stretch forward. As you do so blood rushes to your head dizzying you. You blink hard three or four times and the sensation goes.

Touching toes is not as simple as it sounds, it puts a terrible strain on your calf muscles. But, you know how to do it. You have been in this position before and probably will be again. You spread your feet a little and keep your head low and bottom high. Now, all you can see is the floor beneath your feet and your red and white striped tie dangling in front of your face.

You hear the boards squeak as the headmaster moves across the study. You tense when he stands directly behind you. He takes hold of the tail of your white cotton shirt and drags it up your back. Even in the airless room, you feel a slight draught as the flesh on your lower back is exposed.

He grips the elasticated waist of your underpants and tugs. The cotton digs into the crack between your cheeks. Then, with the palm of one hand the headmaster gently rubs first your left buttock and then the right. He is smoothing away the creases until the Y-fronts fit you like a second skin. You hear him take two steps away from you. Your breathing is increasingly heavy. You are bent submissively, offering up your backside for punishment.

You feel the cane tap against your stretched underpants, the headmaster is finding his aim. You suck on your bottom lip. Any moment now. You know this will hurt; intensely.  That is the point after all. Why go to the trouble of caning a backside unless it hurts. You understood that. A boy has to learn the error of his ways.

Swish! The cane swipes through the air and lands with terrific force across the middle your bum. You hiss as air escapes through pursed lips. You can’t help it. Every schoolboy that ever there was knows that sometimes you just can’t stop yourself. It’s some kind of reflex action; the body’s way of coping with all that agony.

You know the rules; you are permitted to grunt and groan. But no matter how much it hurts do not stand up clutching your blazing buttocks. And on no account blub! How could a chap hold his head up high at school if the fellows found out he had cried during a caning?

The second cut lands, slicing into your bum just below the first. The headmaster is an expert. His fame has spread far and wide across many generations of naughty schoolboys.

You concentrate on the floorboards as swipe number three connects with the top of the thigh. Bare flesh. “Jeeeez!” You wriggle your his hips left and right. Your fingers leave the toecaps of your shoes. You nearly jump to your feet, but stop just in time. That was low. Too low. You’ll have a deep purple mark there that won’t clear for days.

“Keep still boy. Fingers on toes please.”

The pain is searing. You feel perspiration running down your bare back. The headmaster pauses allowing you to settle. He swipes the fourth high; on the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. He is administering the strokes with some vim. He likes to put a lot of beef into his canings, just like he beats carpets at home.

You are in shock, you breathe hard: in-out; in-out. You can feel four clearly-defined welts throbbing across your bum; all in neat parallel lines. There is a strip about two inches wide blazing across your buttocks. The headmaster might have rolled a white-hot poker across your backside.

Your eyes are moistening; it is the heat in the room, the strain of having your head at an unnatural angle and the start of tears. Before you have time to think of the indignity of crying, number five strikes lower. This one hits the fleshiest part of the buttocks, where you have most padding. The cane sinks deep into the meat and leaves a long line of searing pain before bouncing away. This time you stifle a yell. You cough a little; there is a taste of vomit at the back of your throat.

There is one more to come. At least, you suppose so. The headmaster had not announced it would be: “Six of the best.” He usually does. Why didn’t he this time? He has already told you that the Six he administered last time had not been enough.

You feel him shift his position a little. Ah Ha! You think. This must be the final stroke. He is famous for this move. He thinks it makes it a real “headmaster’s caning.” It will be something awesome, more vicious than an ordinary beating from, say, a form-master or housemaster. You brace yourself. You screw your eyes tight and clench your teeth. You are ready. “Bring it on,” you say, but not aloud so that the headmaster can hear you.

The headmaster places the cane at a diagonal across both your cheeks. It is running from bottom left to top right. Tap-tap-tap. You tense your whole body and as you do this your shoulders heave. Whop! The cane seems to move at the speed of sound, you can hear the whistle as it flies through the air. Then it crashes into your bum. It cuts across the five welts already oozing across your once-creamy-white posterior, setting each one of them ablaze again. You grip your shins, you want to jump up and stamp your feet about, run up and down on the spot, rubbing your hands across the scorching flesh.

But you managed to stay down. You are proud. It is over now. It feels like you have sat on a barbecue. You wait, breathing hard for the instruction to rise. You hear more squeaks on the floorboards, the headmaster is on the move again. From the corner of your eye you see him walk slowly towards a tall, thin cupboard. Slowly, for he is in no hurry, he delves into a pocket of his waistcoat. There he finds a small key. He uses this to unlock the cupboard. You hear a distinct rattling sound as he places the cane inside along five or six others nestling there.

The headmaster returns to his desk. You hear a drawer open and a book being removed. You continue to stare down at the floor. The headmaster finds a page and writes in the book.

“You may stand Perkins.”

Hot, sweaty and sore, you unfurl yourself and regain a standing position. You want to rub away at your roaring backside, but you know from experience it does no good. You will just have to wait for the pain to go away on its own. Soon enough it will become a warm glow, but that slash on the back of the thighs will continue to hurt for quite some time.

“Sign.” The headmaster slides the punishment book across the desk. You hesitate. The headmaster understands your predicament at once. “Pah!” he has no patience. He reaches back into the drawer and finds a half-chewed pen, which he rolls across the desk.

You pick it up and with unsteady hand you sign your name.

Only now does the headmaster say, “Get dressed. You are dismissed.”

You do not need telling twice. You pull your trousers up to their rightful place and fasten the button on the waistband. You leave your flies undone. You pick up the blazer, even in your present situation you still have presence of mind to ensure the cigarettes and matches do not fall from the pocket.

You slowly open the oak door. Outside, you pause and take three deep breathes. Then, you hurry into the room across the landing. Inside, you whip down your trousers and underpants and point your bare bottom at the full-length mirror. You admire the six very distinct lines across you bum. Gingerly, you trace their outline with the tip of a finger. Your flesh feels like corrugated paper.

You look at your face in the mirror, noticing only for the first time that your beard needs a trim. As you are thinking this the door opens. The headmaster stands on the threshold. “How was that?” he smiles.

“Fantastic, as always,” you say with genuine admiration.

“Do you want a drink first, or shall we go back in and do it on the bare now?” he asks.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

 

Other stories you might like

 

Housemaster’s double caning

Kevin revisits his old school

The night porter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com