Waiting …

new 5

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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

St Francis Independent Grammar School: Snowballs

Dr Henderson-Smith the headmaster was at his most self-important. Five hundred schoolboys sat in rapt attention.

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, berated his boys. He was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. His white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

The headmaster had centre stage and the old ham actor was enjoying his moment. The topic of his sermon was snowballs; and the throwing thereof. The dangers of eyes poked out by shards of ice. Damp clothes and influenza.

He wrapped his academic gown around his body giving the appearance of a crow about to take flight. “I do not have to spell out the consequences to any boy found throwing snow.”

Undeniably he did not. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school. It had traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. An errant boy could expect a very sore backside indeed.

It was proving to be one of the worst winters on record. Brocklehurst had been carpeted with snow for most of December and January. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come.

That evening George Baker, sixth-form pupil and prefect at St Francis, stared from his bedroom window. The snow was falling once more. He tucked a hot water bottle beneath his sheets and dived under the blankets. Shivering in bed, he went through a plan in his head. He had been thinking about it for months. Maybe, he thought, one day, he would put the plan into operation.

The next day Dr Henderson-Smith sat in his study. The school day was completed. The open fire roared, but there was still a chill in the air. He busied himself preparing a composition to inflict on his Upper VI Latin class. His concentration was disturbed by a dull thudding noise. He paused from his labours, uncertain what it was that he had heard.

Then, there it was again. Thud. Something had connected with the outside of the study window.

“What the Dickens?” the headmaster said aloud, even though he was alone in the room. When a third thud followed, he was certain he had solved the mystery.

A handful of snow was slithering down the outside of the window.

He rushed over and peered through the now-misty glass.

“What the …?” This time he failed to complete the sentence. Below his study window, in his clear view was a boy throwing snow. Dr Henderson-Smith watched dumbfounded as the boy crouched down, scooped snow into his hand, fashioned it into a ball, and then threw it, seemingly at random at passing pupils.

z used drawing snowballs Mag (2)

The boy was clearing disobeying the headmaster’s instruction. No snowballs. Dr Henderson-Smith stared with radioactive eyes. Then he threw open the window and roared, “Baker, my study. This instance!”

The boy dropped the snow he was fashioning for another missile and turned to face the noise.

“Yes, Sir,” he said meekly and moved to enter the building.

The headmaster closed the window and sat at his desk, dumbfounded. He had caught George Baker throwing snowballs in clear violation of the headmaster’s expressed instructions.

George Baker? Sixth-former and prefect. The boy was in the headmaster’s Latin class. He was among the brightest boys in the school and was destined to go up to one of the country’s top universities.

There was a timid knock on the heavy oak door of the study. Baker had arrived.

“Enter!” Dr Henderson-Smith bellowed. Slowly, the door inched open and a head appeared. It was a small head topped with short curly black hair. The face was flushed; possibly caused by freezing cold air; or possibly because its owner, one George Baker, knew he was in serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed.

“Don’t dawdle boy!” Dr Henderson-Smith was incapable of speaking at a normal volume. “Close the door, you are letting the warmth escape.”

Baker edged his way into the room, closed the door behind him and halted, unsure what to do next.

He eyed the headmaster resplendent in his academic gown, seated behind a huge oak desk. The boy had never been in this room before. There had been no reason for him to visit. Particularly not for the purpose that had brought him today. Baker found the dense oak panelling intimidating. The room was gloomy even during bright sunny days, but now, in the bleak mid-winter, it felt like the inside of a cave.

“Stand there boy!” the headmaster pointed very deliberately to a point on a worn rug in front of his desk. Generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet on this spot. It was the first phase of a ritual played out over possibly hundreds of years at St Francis. This was where every sorrowful boy stopped and stood, head bowed, to await his fate.

The second phase was the “jawing.” The headmaster berated the woeful boy for his misbehaviours. Dr Henderson-Smith had perfected his own style: pomposity. He aimed his steely eyes at Baker like a weapon.

“Were you not in att-end-ance at morn-ing ass-emb-er-ley yes-ter-day morn-er-ing?” the headmaster strung out every syllable for dramatic effect. This way, he believed, he struck terror into his boys.

Baker listened confused. When Dr Henderson-Smith spoke this way it could be difficult to follow what he was saying.

“Well, Baker?”

The eighteen-year-old sixth-former took a stab at a reply.

“Yes, Sir.” It was not a detailed response, but the boy hoped it would do in the circumstances.

“Pah!” It was an explosion. Air rushed through the headmaster’s lips. His snowy white moustache bristled; his eyebrows knotted. The outrage he felt was intense.

“And, yet!” Dr Henderson-Smith was barely in control. “And yet, you saw fit to disobey my clear instructions on the throwing of snowballs!”  The headmaster was speaking more clearly now, but Baker was unsure if this was a rhetorical question. Was he supposed to answer?

He chose silence. He stared down at his feet and let his headmaster continue his denunciation.

“Never in my whole life as a headmaster,” he lied, “have I ever come across such wilful disobedience as this Baker. Never.”

Dr Henderson-Smith slapped the palm of his right hand on the desktop, startling young Baker who was intently studying the pattern on the rug.

“What do you have to say for yourself boy?”

Baker’s heart pounded. What could he say? He wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

“Well!” the headmaster screeched. He genuinely could not understand what Baker had been thinking.

“Sorry, Sir.” It was all he could think to say. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

“Pah!” It was another explosion of indignation. Sorry, the headmaster thought to himself. You soon will be.

“You leave me no choice, Baker.”

The boy raised his head. His grey-blue eyes shone as he watched the headmaster heave himself from his chair and pace the study. His destination was a corner cupboard. It was unlocked and within seconds the headmaster was rummaging round inside. His body blocked the teenager’s view, but he could hear a distinct rattling within.

Seconds later, Dr Henderson-Smith withdrew a curve-handled cane. Baker had seen many of these in the past; St Francis was that kind of school. But he had never before been on the receiving end of one. The headmaster looked attentively at the cane in his hands; as if seeing it for the first time. He murmured to himself and thoughtfully he flexed it between both hands. It was a little over three feet long and no thicker than a pencil.

Baker gawked from a distance. As school canes went it did not look especially vicious, he thought. He had seen longer and thicker ones. But, what this caning novice did not know was that in expert hands even a short thin cane could be made to deliver an excruciating sting. Dr Henderson-Smith was such an expert.

The headmaster turned to face the boy. He swished the cane through the air. If the swoosh! that it made was intended to intimidate the sixth-former it worked. For the first time that afternoon Baker wondered if disobedience had been such a good idea.

“Take you blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.”

Baker wanted to comply with the order, but his fingers didn’t want to work. Was it the cold or his nerves, he wasn’t quite sure.

Eventually, the jacket was in place.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Stand in front of my desk.”

Baker had never been caned in his life, but he had heard enough tales from school friends to know that in a moment he would be bent across the desk, with his bum in the air to allow the headmaster to thwack six-of-the-best across the seat of his trousers. It would hurt like blazes. He expected that. That was after all the point of it all.

“Lower your trousers.”

Baker had not expected that and the pleading look in his eyes betrayed his feeling. He stood rooted.

“Lower your trousers boy!” the headmaster repeated, a little louder this time.

Still Baker could not move.

“If you do not submit yourself to corporal punishment, I shall contact your father and tell him you are suspended from school. Do you wish me to do that?” The headmaster spoke slowly and deliberately.

He hoped it would not come to that. What on Earth would Mr Baker make of the situation? His eighteen-year-old son in the headmaster’s study refusing to take a beating. His son who had never given a moment’s trouble before. He had never needed caning before; never been given detention; never been set lines. He had probably never been admonished for bad behaviour in his life.

“One last time Baker. Lower your trousers.”

Sweat from the boy’s palms transferred to the belt as with shaking hands he struggled to loosen it. He could feel blood racing through his body at great speed as he pulled the buttons of his trousers loose, exposing the white Y-front underpants beneath.

The mid-grey trousers slipped down to his knees. He waited for the next instruction. Dr Henderson-Smith had developed a cruel streak in his years as a headmaster. The youngster standing in front of him was terrified. Dear God, the boy would be thinking, please don’t make me take down my underpants. The headmaster waited a moment and then waited some more.

“Lift your pullover and shirt clear of your bottom and bend over the desk.” He tapped the cane gently across the hard oak desktop in case there was any doubt.

Even though blood coursed through his body, it drained from Baker’s face, making him look ghoulish.

The boy adjusted his clothing exposing a flat hairless stomach and stretched his arms out ahead of him, gripping the desk top with both hands and thrusting his bottom out.

“Not like that,” the headmaster was easily irritated when a boy did not present himself properly for a caning. “Right over. Flat on your stomach.”

Baker eased forward. It was a huge desk and it was a stretch for him to reach the far edge with his hands. Unsure what to do with his arms, he folded them and tried to bury his head.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there,” the headmaster barked. “Do not move them and at no point try to protect yourself with your hands.”

Baker did as instructed. Hands on head worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable stance to take. Comfortable for now, but what happened next would be far from that.

Thinking about it later, Baker tried to imagine the scene. He was stretched across a huge oak desk; his trousers now at his ankles, revealing long, slim, slightly hairy legs. His shirt and pullover was pushed up and his midriff was bare. It was a cold room but he could feel the heat from the roaring open fire against his naked flesh. His white cotton underpants fitted snugly once the headmaster had tugged them tight against his buttocks.

His face was pressed down into the old oak desk. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify; probably some kind of polish.

He waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr Henderson Smith a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baker imagined, the headmaster preparing himself, flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the headmaster laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

Baker’s mouth opened and closed. “Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being exhaled. The boy tightened his grip on his entwined fingers and pressed down on the top of his head.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. That got Baker yelping. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baker had expected. How could anyone take six strokes like this? Then, he panicked. Six? It was to be six wasn’t it? The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff. Would it be more? Please God, no.

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. Dr Henderson-Smith was giving it some beef. Each stroke had been an almighty swipe; he could have been beating a carpet. This one had the boy’s feet marching up and down on the spot. His bum felt swollen. He desperately wanted to jump up and rub away.

“Oh, no!” Baker thought it but did not say it aloud. Dr Henderson-Smith had taken hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. “Please, no, don’t pull them down.”

He bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to beg for mercy. But, he need not worry. The headmaster pulled the waistband of the Y-fronts away from the boy’s back to get a full view of his bare buttocks. He was inspecting the damage done so far.

What he saw were three deep red marks, across both cheeks, almost parallel to one another. A thick welt had formed where two of the strokes had landed nearly in the same place. If he struck that area again, it would surely bleed, he thought.

The headmaster was not a sadist. He believed in corporal punishment; not in torture. A caning should be well laid on, especially if the body on the receiving end was a senior boy, or a recidivist, a repeat offender. Intense pain should be inflicted and there should be marks that would stay for days, a reminder of the penalty for bad behaviour.

Dr Henderson-Smith did not wish to leave Baker’s buttocks bloodied, so for number four he took aim lower down, away from the danger area. It struck at the sensitive “sit spot,” where the cheeks met the thighs. That one had Baker hollering. Tears flowed. He head-butted the desk; he marched his feet up and down and twisted his hips and bottom; but none of it helped. The agony was intense and it was not going away any time soon.

Four strokes had been delivered in a carefully timed sequence. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse so the full force of a stroke could be felt before the next was sent crashing home. The final two were delivered in quick succession, and at intense speed. Whack-whack. The whippy rattan bounced off the tight cotton-covered buttocks. It sounded like two pistol shots echoing around the ancient study.

George Baker thought he might faint. His scorched bottom felt like the headmaster had forced him to sit in the open fire. When the headmaster delivered the final cut to the boy he rested the cane on the desktop and waited for the final throaty scream to recede. For what seemed an age neither the headmaster nor the thrashed boy spoke or moved.

The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of George Baker, still bent across the desk.

Dr Henderson-Smith brushed his hand across the boy’s shoulder. “You may get up now,” he said softly.

Unsteadily, Baker lifted himself off the desk. His backside felt twice its normal size. He rubbed gently and even through the cotton underpants he could feel at least two distinct deep weals. The surface of his bum felt hard, like leather.

Tears still trickled from his eyes, but he was in control of himself now. Gingerly, he pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He could not bear to look at the headmaster. He wanted to get out of the study without delay.

While Baker struggled into his blazer, Dr Henderson-Smith reached into the drawer of his desk, extracted the punishment book and entered the details.

“Sign,” he pushed the book and a ball-point pen across the desk. The headmaster wanted this to end swiftly too.

“You are dismissed.”

Dr Henderson-Smith stood at the study window perplexed and watched Baker walk through the quadrangle and out of the school gates.

Twenty minutes later at home in his cold bedroom George Baker inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his bottom was tender to touch. It might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on a hard dining room chair at tea time.

So, he thought, that’s what it felt like to get the cane. It would have been a pity to have gone through his whole school career at St FIGS without knowing. He picked up the Football Monthly, eased himself down on the bed and flicked through its pages.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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Kevin revisits his old school

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The tenants and the headmaster

It was a big disadvantage if the landlord of your apartment was also a headmaster at a local school, as Dick and his pal Sam were to discover.

Mr Dunn was a kind-hearted and charitable man; he let out the apartment through a charity called Helping Hand which looked after kids once they became too old to stay at orphanages. Youngsters often found it difficult to get jobs or find places to live and were in danger of getting into trouble, so the charity helped them. Mr Dunn knew he could get more rent if he let out the apartment to a professional couple, but that didn’t bother him. He truly believed he was making a difference in Dick and Sam’s lives.

And, he was. The two guys had left the same orphanage a year ago when they were eighteen and drifted aimlessly for a while. Then, Helping Hand found them sleeping rough in the local park and stepped in.

Within weeks Dick and Sam had jobs and this apartment. The jobs were a bit crappy: Dick was at a burger bar and Sam filled shelves in a supermarket. Mr Dunn knew things weren’t easy for the boys so he let the charity charge an uneconomic rent.

Unfortunately, things had not worked out well in the six months since the boys moved in. Neighbours complained about the noise they made and there were nights when gangs of their “friends” stayed over, drinking booze and smoking dope.

Mr Dunn knew the organisers of Helping Hand and through them he arranged to meet the boys to discuss the problems.

Mr Dunn was a headmaster and he understood boys, he knew that even though they were now nineteen years old, Dick and Sam were pretty immature. They had lived most of their lives in institutions and were not used to taking responsibility for themselves. He reckoned they probably had the maturity level of a “normal” thirteen or fourteen-year-old schoolboy and Mr Dunn certainly had experience of dealing with those.

At his school, boys of that age would be subject to clear rules. If they broke the rules, especially if they did so wilfully, they would be punished. There was a hierarchy of punishments, ranging from rebuke and “telling off,” through to writing lines and detentions.

Only last week he had been forced to thrash an eighteen-year-old boy called Scanlon who had been making a nice little earner selling single cigarettes to junior boys to smoke behind the cricket pavilion. In a way, Mr Dunn admired the boy’s entrepreneurial spirit, but once discovered, there was no alternative but to beat his buttocks black and blue.

Scanlon was resigned to his fate. He probably knew that if he didn’t accept the caning, Mr Dunn would be forced to expel him from the school.

The headmaster did not stand on ceremony. Once Scanlon had confessed his crime, he was ordered to turn an armchair round so its back faced the room. On instruction, he bent over, offering his backside up for Mr Dunn’s attention. The headmaster obliged with six swift stingers that landed across the centre of Scanlon’s stretched buttocks. The boy gasped audibly as each one struck home. His face was pale and his eyes moist, when he was eventually allowed to stand and he left the headmaster’s study with a throbbing behind, scarred with six red welts.

Scanlon did not resent his thrashing. He knew he had deliberately broken the rules and he knew what the consequences would be if he were caught. That, Mr Dunn believed, was entirely as it should be.

When he met with Dick and Sam, Mr Dunn made it clear that their behaviour had become unacceptable, it was anti-social and they needed to be more considerate to their neighbours. The boys accepted that they had been thoughtless and promised to mend their ways.

Mr Dunn left it at that: he didn’t really have any choice. What could he do if the boys continued to misbehave, except throw them out of the apartment and if he did that they would probably end up back in the park and Mr Dunn genuinely did not want that to happen.

As far as Mr Dunn knew, the boys behaved themselves for a week or two, but then he heard they fell back into their old habits. The final straw came when they boys failed to pay their rent. A worker at the charity told him they had been skipping work, so, of course, they didn’t have rent money.

Mr Dunn was furious. It was bad enough they treated their neighbours badly, but now they were doing it free-of-charge. He seriously considered throwing them out on their ears. So what if they ended up sleeping rough, he knew there were many other youngsters just out of orphanages who would give their right arms for the chance to take over the apartment.

But, he decided to give them a final chance. Mr Dunn had many years of experience beating backsides and he knew that the cane, or the threat of it, worked.

He was certain Dick and Sam would respond to corporal punishment. Mr Dunn thought Dick and Sam already deserved a good hiding for skiving off work and not paying the rent, but in fairness he knew he should warn them first of the consequences of their misbehaviour.

He visited the boys and explained his plan. They took it surprisingly well, he thought, and the three of them discussed what poor conduct would merit corporal punishment. High on the list of transgressions was playing loud music, having unauthorised guests, missing work, and above all, not paying the rent.

I was shocked when Dunn said he would beat us if we broke any of his rules. I thought I had left the cane behind at the orphanage. When he explained to us that our behaviour upset the neighbours and how important it was that we went to work and made something of ourselves, I felt sorry. I would behave in future, I told him, and I meant it.

But, I couldn’t keep it up. Work was really boring, making burgers all day:  day after day after day. Most people working there were students or real no-hopers and the boss, Billy, was a bit creepy, if you ask me.

I cut work a few times and so I couldn’t make the rent again. Sam moaned at me, he had been to his job like a good little boy and he had the money. He didn’t see why he should get a whacking because of me.

I got word from the worker at Helping Hand that Dunn would be around to see me about the rent. Sam had paid his share and was in the clear. At least he was good enough to slope off to the pub when Dunn was due.

Not a minute too early, nor a minute too late, Dunn arrived. He rang the doorbell, even though he had a key and could’ve let himself in.

Nervously, I answered. He was carrying a snooker cue case.

“I didn’t know you played, Mr Dunn,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He just smirked and said nothing.

Dunn was the headmaster of one of the local schools and had an air of authority about him. I supposed he had a lot of practice telling kids they were naughty and putting them in their place, which I assumed, soon meant me over his knee or somewhere.

“Let’s go in the lounge.” I followed him in. He whistled through his teeth as he saw the mess. Dirty cups and saucers were on the table and the couch was covered in old magazines. I stared at the pile, hoping I hadn’t left my wank mags there.

“Don’t you boys ever tidy up?”

I made a move to tidy up the magazines.

“Leave them alone. Leave them alone.”

He pulled a dining room chair from its place by the table, put it in the middle of the room, and sat down.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot a few feet in front of him.

I did as I was directed. I had already decided I would do exactly as I was told. I didn’t want to get thrown out of the apartment, especially not if Sam was going to stay. I couldn’t face being out there on my own.

Very quietly and very carefully, Dunn explained what I had done wrong, what I needed to do in future to improve myself and why, now, he was going to cane my backside.

I had expected this, but, still it came as a shock. My legs turned a little to jelly, but I stayed upright. I assumed Dunn would expect me to present myself humbly for the beating. Would that be even more humiliating than the beating itself?

Dunn stood up and walked to the table where he had left his snooker cue. He opened the case and took out a straight cane, about three feet long and as thick as a pencil.

I felt such a fool, no wonder Dunn had sneered at me.

“Stand behind the chair.” I did as I was told. He held the cane between his two hands and flexed it backwards and forwards. It was very springy for a cane that thick.

I couldn’t take my eyes of it as he made a few practice swipes through the air.

“Bend over the chair boy and put your hands flat on the seat.” I almost smiled with relief. I was expecting to be told to take my trousers and pants down to take the caning on the bare bum.

Surely, it wouldn’t hurt too much with my trousers up. I wished I had known; I would’ve worn my new thick Levis.

I got into position. The chair was quite high and I had to stand on tip-toe and rest my stomach on the back to be able to lay my palms flat. I could tell my arse was really high and would make a tremendous target for Dunn’s cane.

He said nothing, but I could hear him getting ready. He swished the cane about some more making sure there was enough room for him to get a good swing and bring the cane thwacking down into the seat of my trousers.

z used cane hold (2)

I felt the cane go tap, tap, against my stretched bum and then Whooosh! I heard the crack of the cane hit my bum and then a split-second later I felt a terrifying pain across both cheeks. I moved my hands from the top of the seat and hung to the chair’s edge for dear life.

The second slice had me yowling! with agony. The pain shot from my backside through my entire body. I couldn’t take any more of this, but I knew I had to try to be brave. I realised Dunn had not told me how many strokes I was getting. I assumed six, as in six-of-the-best, but my God, maybe there would be more.

I cried bitterly as number three whacked into me. How could that little stick hurt so much? I could feel a welt forming across the lower end of my cheeks and the throbbing made my buttocks feel they were twice their normal size.

I danced up and down after the fourth stroke hit low and took me at the top of my thighs. I gripped on to the wooden seat of the chair to stop me jumping up and clutching my burning buttocks in both hands. The pain was searing and I had never before experienced anything like this.

I howled and howled as the fifth whack cut diagonally across the other four, sending renewed waves of pain through my buttocks. Tears and snot were running down my face

The sixth stroke landed on the top of my thigh like a white-hot poker.  I yelled some more, and my sobs came in heaves.

I heard Dunn return his cane to the snooker cue case. It was over.

“Stand up boy.” I got up and my hands shot straight to my roasting buttocks, rubbing away in a fruitless attempt to ease the pain.

“Stop that at once,” Dunn commanded. “Put your hands by your side.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told, hopping from one foot to the other, still trying to deaden the pain. My poor arse felt like it had sat on a coal fire. Every part from the top of my globes to my thighs was raw flesh. How much more time would it take for the throbbing and the welts from this severe thrashing to go away?

I was regaining some composure, tears continued to flow, but I had stopped heaving.

I was so pleased Sam had gone to the pub so as not to witness my humiliation. Then, I heard the sound of footsteps above the ceiling. My neighbours, the ones who always complained about our loud music, must have heard me wailing. Had Dunn told them what he intended to do?

“Please understand, I have thrashed you for your own good. It is to emphasise that your behaviour until now has been unacceptable. I want you to know that you have been punished for your wrong-doing and the slate is now clean. However, be under no illusion, that if you continue to break my rules the consequences will be very severe indeed. Do you understand me?”

Yes, I told him, I understood.

And, I did, I never missed paying my rent again. Never, in my entire life.

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit Unknown

 

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Dad’s despair

The vicar delivers

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

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

 

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

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

He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

The previous day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that? Who made that noise?”

There was no reply.

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

Still no one stirred.

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

“I order the boy to stand!”

The order was not obeyed.

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

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

The gasp was audible.

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

Dr Fortescue grew crimson with anger.

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

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

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

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

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

Only when left alone could they express their indignation.

“Impossible.”

“Madness.”

“Can he do this?”

“We’re the Sixth-Form.”

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

“What can you do?” Bob Lender asked.

“Nothing much,” was the general consensus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hard cold eyes fixed on Axford.

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

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

Gingerly, the prefect held out his hand.

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

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

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

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

“Other hand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“No.”

“Sir!”

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

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

“Bbbbb…” the mumbling of dissent continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They did so in an instant

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

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

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

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

“Quickly boy. I haven’t got all day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Legs further apart. Bottom higher.”

Bob wriggled his hips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up.”

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

Solemnly, Dr Fortescue swished the cane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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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.

z used cane pants school London

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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Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor — part 1

used paddle board of education

“I told your father that I would employ traditional teaching methods,” he said reaching into his canvas bag and withdrawing a wooden paddle.

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

He rolled the words “corporal punishment” around his mouth with some relish, enjoying every syllable.

He held the paddle by the handle and waved it close to my face. I could see some joker had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of the flat sides. I bet that gave someone a lot of laughs.

He was my private tutor and this was our first meeting. Dad hired him after I failed my A-level mock exams. It looks like if I don’t buck my ideas up a lot I’m going to fail the proper exams, and then God alone knows where I’ll be.

I’m not a stupid kid; I wouldn’t be in the Sixth Form at school if I was. But in the past few months I’ve let my studying slip a lot. I’m in a band and that takes up a lot of my time and then there are the girls of course. And, since I turned eighteen a few months back I’ve been able to get into bars and clubs legally and I’ve taken full advantage of that.

“So”, he said, walking to the couch and sitting down in the middle of it. He told me I had let myself and my family down by not working and it would cost my father a lot of money to hire him to tutor me over the coming months. I stood and watched him slapping the paddle into the palm of his hand to emphasise some of the words.

I had better think again if I thought I was going to get away with my behaviour, he told me sternly. I was to work hard from here on in and if I didn’t it was a spanking for me.

I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I didn’t. I wanted to tell him to “piss off”, but I knew that wasn’t going to be to my advantage.

He went on telling me about what he expected from me and how I was going to behave from now on. I was listening, but not really, if you know what I mean.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “And, I’m going to spank you now as punishment for all the laziness you have shown over the past months.”

I heard that alright. I still didn’t say anything, but the look on my face must have told him I wasn’t going to go along with his little plan.

“Come here,” he gestured at me to approach him. I didn’t.

“I said COME HERE!” He raised his voice considerably, it was a stern command, but he didn’t shout.

I hesitated. I thought about running from the room, but before I could move my feet, he reached across and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me towards him and the couch.

Before, I could protest he had me across his lap. Then he took hold of my legs and lifted them so they were resting on the couch.

We must have made an odd picture. I was lying face down stretched across the couch with my backside raised over the middle of his lap. I was quite proud of my bum and had bought my jeans especially because they showed off my prized asset to the best. But the jeans were to please the girls, not some pervert private tutor.

He sat upright with his arm curled around my waist, to make sure I was pinned tight over his lap. He was on the chubby side and I could feel his stomach against my leg. He wore an old fashioned suit; it was made of tweed or some thick itchy material like that. He was probably in his forties, but he looked a lot older than that.

I felt him pull my T-shirt up and expose my lower back. He grabbed the waist of my jeans and pulled them butt tight.

Bang! The first whack hurt a lot more than I expected. But then again I’d never been spanked before, so what would I really know about it.

Bang! The second wallop hit me on the other check. I tried to wriggle, but he had me pinned down tightly across his lap

He gave me another three spanks in quick succession. I wanted to yell, or at least go “ouch!” it hurt so much, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

He whacked me some more and then stopped. The pain was intense. I’d never felt anything remotely like it before in my life. I lay face down in the cushion of the couch breathing heavily. It seemed like he had stopped. Was it all over?

Bang! Clearly not. He must have been pausing to catch his breath. He hit me much lower now, below the buttock, just where the cheek meets the leg. I tried to lift myself off his lap, but he moved his arm from my waist to my shoulders making sure I was going nowhere.

He must have hit me another three or four times, I can’t be sure, I was in too much pain to remember.

Then he stopped. This time it really was over.

He still held me firmly across his lap. “Please be aware that if you do not obey me and work extremely hard in the coming months you will get more of this. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say a thing.

“I asked, Do you understand?” he whacked me again, very hard across the right buttock.

“Yes,” I murmured, barely able to speak.

“Yes, what?” He whacked me again, this time on the left cheek.

“Yes, I understand,” I whimpered.

“Yes, what?” Another hard whack right in the middle of my bum.

Oh, I got it. “Yes sir!”

“That’s better. And believe me if I have to I will spank you each time we meet. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir!” I was getting the hang of this now.

“Good, that is understood.” He let me get up.

I wanted to run to my room to howl and to inspect the damage, but I knew he wouldn’t let me go until he dismissed me.

My bum felt like twice its normal size and I desperately wanted to try to rub the pain away.

“Now, here’s your homework,” he said. “I want it completed by Saturday when we shall meet again.”

Saturday.  Jesus are we going to have to go through this all again in only three days’ time?

“Now, take this paddle and hang it on the hook on your bedroom door. I want it to be a constant reminder to you about what will happen if you don’t pull your socks up.”

It was Saturday and I had expected to get a spanking from my private tutor, but not two in the space of twenty minutes.

I was still in bed when he arrived at our house at 11am. Mum called me from the bottom of the stairs to say he was here. Then she was off to the shops, leaving us alone in the house.

“Come down here this instance.” This time it was the tutor calling. He might be a chubby forty-something man, but he certainly had presence. I pulled back the duvet and still in my pyjama bottoms and white vest I padded down the stairs.

“Were you still in bed?”

“No.” It was a bare-faced lie and it was going to get me a bare-arsed spanking.

“Don’t lie to me. In future you will be up and ready to start work the moment I arrive,” the tutor barked.

“Now come here.” He grabbed me by the arm and led me into the living room. As we went through the door he released his grip on me.

He sat on a yellow armchair. “Here. Now.” He pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his left.

I had hardly reached the spot before he took my left arm and guided me across his knee. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to resist.

My head was touching the carpet and my bottom was high over his lap. My toes were an inch or two off the ground. He tugged at the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and pulled them down to my thighs, exposing my bare bottom.

It was still bruised from the paddle spanking he had given me on Wednesday, but that didn’t bother him. He slapped me with his open palm so hard I could have sworn he still had the wooden paddle in his hand.

And he kept on slapping. He didn’t stop between spanks and rained down a couple of dozen, and possibly more. Rapid and hard. On and on he went with each one as hard as the one before. I was gasping, but refused to let him know the pain was killing me.

“Up.” He stopped and I scrambled off his lap and quickly pulled up my pyjamas. My bum was raw. It felt like I’d been stung by a thousand wasps. I wanted to rub like mad, but wasn’t going to show it.

“Stand there.”

He delved into to his canvas bag.

“Here, I want you to put these on.” He handed me a pair of grey Terylene school short trousers, some knee socks and a striped tie.

“I’m eighteen years old, not eight, you pervert.” I didn’t say it of course; I just meekly took them from him.

He told me that he wanted me to look the part when he was teaching me. He said I was to wear a white shirt, with the clothes he had given me and then he sent me upstairs to change.

I inspected my bum in the bedroom mirror. It was salmon pink and there were finger marks where the spanks had connected with the flesh.

I pulled on the short trousers, they fitted me perfectly. They were shorter than the shorts we normally wore in summer. These were about three inches above the knee.

I admired myself in the mirror. I had to admit I looked pretty good in the grey school shorts. I’ve got a great bum – the girls are always telling me so – and these showed that to great effect. My legs are pretty good too, I thought as I pulled on the knee socks.

By the time I’d put on a white shirt, my own dark-blue school jumper (the one with the yellow braiding around the neck and cuffs) and the red and black striped tie, I have to say I looked pretty damn good.

I went down stairs to face my tutor. He was waiting patiently in the living room for my return. He had spread some books on the dining room table and was ready to start teaching.

“Show me the homework, I set you,” he said.

I didn’t reply, but the look on my face must have told its own story.

“You haven’t done it.” It was a statement, not a question.

Of course I hadn’t done it. There was band practice to do and last night we went clubbing and there was this girl and …anyway, you’re not interested in that. But you can see there was a reason why I was still in bed at eleven o’clock.

He didn’t seem to be angry, or at least he didn’t show it. Maybe he expected something like this. After all, the reason why I had to do extra tuition with him for my A-level exams was because I hadn’t been working properly up to now.

He lectured me a bit. He said the kind of things you’d expect him to say in circumstances such as these.

Then he got to the point.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t work hard?”

It seemed like it might be a rhetorical question, but I answered nonetheless.

“A spanking.”

That was enough said. We both knew what was going to happen now.

“Go to your room and fetch the paddle from the back of your door.”

I went upstairs. I hadn’t hung up the paddle as instructed. There was no way I was going to be looking at that thing all night. Besides, how would I explain it to my friends when they saw it?

I retrieved the Board of Education from the drawer where I had hidden it and took it downstairs.

By the time I returned to the living room the tutor had placed a dining room chair with its back hard against the table. The books had been removed.

He reached out his hand and I gave him the paddle. He pointed to the chair.

“Kneel on the chair and stretch yourself right across the table.”

I did as I was told. To my surprise my bare knees hurt quite badly against the seat of the chair. But I needn’t have worried; a different part of my body would shortly be hurting much, much more.

I stretched out across the table resting my stomach and chest on the shiny surface. I folded my arms in front of me and buried my head in them.

Although I couldn’t see this myself, I made a pretty picture. The grey short trousers were tight against my lovely little bum, which was presented at a perfect height for my tutor to swing the paddle.

The shorts stretching across my buttocks reminded me just how sore my bum already was.

My tutor stood close up against me, put his hand into my lower back to make sure I couldn’t move, and whacked the first lick into my shorts.

Yes, it hurt like anything, but I was getting a bit used to this. Until last Wednesday I’d never been spanked in my life and now I was getting my third spanking in as many days. And, I knew for sure with this tutor in control it was unlikely to be my last, until I passed those damned A-levels.

My tutor wasn’t taking huge swings with the paddle: he was able to inflict great pain by taking short swats. It was almost as if he was jabbing the paddle into me.

After the first five licks I lost my resolve not to show he was hurting me. I’d buried my head in my arms and was moaning, at first softly, almost to myself only, and then much louder. The moans soon became “ouches” and by lick six they were loud yelps.

My tutor was stronger than you might expect from a little chubby man. With his left hand he held me against the table so hard that I couldn’t make any resistance and with his right hand he paddled the arse off me.

He stopped after ten licks. I was sobbing by now and very, very sore.

He let me up.

“Go to the bathroom and tidy yourself up. Then return here and get on with your geography homework.”

Looking back, I probably should have hated that chubby forty-something tutor in his tweedy suit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Somewhere inside me I knew this man and his corporal punishment was going to save me. If I ever passed my exams, got to university and ended up with a brilliant career, it would be because of days like this.

The paddling my tutor dished out did me the world of good. Trying to avoid another spanking was just the incentive I needed to work for my school examinations.

I’m not an evil person and I’m not even much of a rebellious teen. I’m actually quite bright and can do well in my school work, but I can be lazy and lose focus and that’s what happened here.

My private tutor knew the remedy for this, and he wasn’t afraid to use it: a very sound spanking.

Fear of another trip across the dining room table for licks from the wooden paddle on the seat of my grey school short trousers was enough to put me on the road to recovery. I made sure that I paid attention in the classes my tutor ran and I even did my homework. Hell, I’d even missed some nights when I was supposed to be rehearsing with the band.

My tutor was a very good teacher and I was learning a lot from him – and not only how to get a sore arse.

Tonight he had arranged a special session. He said I needed to do some project work and I needed a partner to do this. That was fine by me; we were always doing projects at school. He had arranged for Harry, one of the other boys he tutored, to visit me at home so we could work together.

Right on time at six o’clock the doorbell rang. I was the only one at home so opened the front door myself to find Harry. He was my age and maybe an inch or two shorter. He had a huge shock of black curly hair that looked like it had never seen a comb in his life.

There was something about his aura that told me we were going to be friends right from the start. I could see when he smiled, which he did often, he had the most beautiful teeth I had ever seen. They were like a Hollywood movie star’s.  He was quite stunningly pretty: the girl’s would have called him “cute,” but I reckoned even this early in our friendship that he probably didn’t like girls that much.

But the biggest impact he made was his clothes: he was dressed just like me, in school short trousers, a white shirt and school tie. Surely, he hadn’t walked the streets like that? Had he come by bus? What did people say when they saw him?

I didn’t have time to ask any of these questions because my tutor arrived just at that moment.

We all went into the living room where the tutor introduced us and without any further preliminaries he set us to work. He said he had something to do and would be back later and left us to it.

The two of us were in no mood to start work. Harry threw himself onto the couch and tucked his legs under himself and sat on them, taking the part of a young kid. I took the yellow armchair, the very same one that my tutor sat on to deliver me a bare bottomed spanking on our second meeting. I sat leaning back in the cushion with my bare legs spread wide.

We tried not to catch each other’s eye. Harry flashed one of his toothy smiles and we giggled. We had hardly said a word since the tutor left, but that was alright.

I looked at him sideways, trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing it and cracked up with laughter. I think the absurdity of the situation got to us both. We were two eighteen-year-old lads, dressed as eight year olds. So it wasn’t too hard for us behave like it.

I leaned across in my chair and rubbed the top of his head, mussing his hair. Then I took a handful and pulled it, before quickly moving my hands away and hugging myself with glee.

Harry yelped, gave me another of his smiles before reaching over the chair to give me one hell of a smack! on my bare thigh. That was it. I was out of the chair and on top of him. We rolled off the couch onto the carpet, wrestling each other.

It wasn’t a real fight; it’s what eight-year-olds call “pretend.” I sat on his belly; he pushed me over to my back. I tweaked his nipple. My shirt came untucked from my short trousers. His tie was around his ear. I slapped him gently on the face; he kneed me in the side.

Then the living room door opened and standing there aghast was the tutor.

“What on Earth is going on here? Stand up the both of you.”

We did.

“Dress yourself properly.” We did that too.

He demanded to know what was going on. Harry got the giggles a bit, I think, and adopting the voice of a naughty little boy said, “Nuffink, Sir.”

The tutor was having none of this and gave a speech about how we had only just met and we should behave and be friends and so on.

We took our ticking off, me mostly staring at the carpet, Harry twisting his fingers through his curls.

Then came the killer, “I’ll deal with you at the end of the class.”

He ordered us to get on with our project. In fact, we worked well on it. I said I thought we were going to be friends and we were.

About ninety minutes later we were finished. But if we thought we were going to be allowed home without very sore bottoms, we had to think again.

We sat together on the couch waiting for the tutor to deal with us.

The door opened again and in he walked, carrying a thick rattan cane with a crooked handle. Where the heck did he get that from?

“Stand up, both of you.” We did. Even though I knew what was going to happen, it still felt like I was in a bit of a dream. The two of us were dressed as schoolboys and we were about to get a naughty boy’s caning.

“Look at me.” He really believed that we were having a proper fight and gave us a lecture about how he wouldn’t tolerate it and so on and he was going to punish us severely. He rolled his tongue around those last three words so we could be certain he was going to be true to his words.

I may have been dressed as an eight-year-old, but I did see the irony of him thrashing us because he had been behaving violently, but I thought the tutor didn’t want a discussion on philosophy quite now.

He swished his cane and pointing with it, but without speaking, he signalled Harry to move further back.

I knew he would need some space to get a decent swing with the cane so wasn’t surprised when he beckoned me to stand and face the far wall.

Swish! “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I bent over grasping my shins. “OUCH!” He flicked the cane against my fingers: the sting was unbearable.

“I said toes. Now do as you are told.” I spread my legs a bit further and got into the required position. I’m very athletic, it was no problem. I could see Harry move slightly to get a better view.

“Six shorts up and then six shorts down,” he pronounced my sentence.

I waited for the first cut but it seemed an age coming. Bent over I could see him through my parted legs. The tutor was taking his time sizing up the situation. What he saw was a young man in short trousers presenting a lovely bum for a whacking with the cane.

I had time to notice that one of my grey knee socks, with the yellow edgings, had fallen down my shin. For one absurd moment I contemplated standing and pulling my socks up.

That was the moment the cane bit into the cloth stretched tightly across my buttocks. I winced. You bet I winced. The pain was so much sharper than the thud I had felt from the paddle the last time the tutor dealt with me.

I could feel a line of pain run across both buttocks, from left to right.

The second cut fell just a tiny bit below the first. I was determined not to cry out, not only because I didn’t want to give my tutor the satisfaction, but I didn’t want to show myself up in front of Harry.

The third and fourth lashes took my breath away. I struggled to keep the tips of my fingers connected with the toes of my socks, but just about managed.

The pain was searing and I could feel welts forming beneath my underpants. This was some thrashing and it wasn’t nearly half over. Soon I was going to get six shorts down.

Somehow, the final two cuts didn’t seem to hurt as badly as the others. Was I becoming immune to the pain or could my tutor see I was having difficulty coping with his beating and easing off a bit?

“Stand up boy.” I did so gladly. Without thinking I put both hands around my backside and rubbed like mad, especially at the point where the buttocks meet the top of the legs.

“Leave it alone. Look at me boy.”

I faced him. I knew I was holding back tears and I probably wouldn’t be able to take my six on the pants without dissolving.

The tutor held his cane behind his back between his two hands. “Take down your shorts, boy.”

My school shorts fitted so well I didn’t need a belt. I undid the buttons around my waist and then the top two buttons in my fly and the force of gravity helped them fall to my ankles.

“What the dickens are these?” My tutor had seen by underpants, a very fashionable, skin tight pair in a lurid light mauve colour.

I could see Harry’s teeth shining.

“With school uniform we wear white cotton briefs. Do you have a pair you can change into?”

Of course not, which teenager do you know wears white Y-fronts?

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You will buy the correct underwear before we next meet. I will undertake an underwear inspection before our next class.”

I swear I heard Harry snort.

“Get back over.” He swished the cane to emphasise the words. Bending made my pants stretch across the six welts on my backside, making it throb like never before.

From my position I was able to get a close inspection of my crouch. I don’t think I’d ever looked at it so closely before. I’d felt it many times of course, but that’s another story.

The tutor must have realised the time of day; class had finished a long time back and I don’t think he was paid overtime for performing duties such as this. He swished the stick into my rear six times in quick succession without ceremony.

I howled. There really was no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise I made. Tears and snot covered my face and I gulped for air. On the sixth cut I shot up and danced first from my left foot and then to the right and back again, clutching my burning bottom.

I bent double. I was about to roll on the floor in some kind of foetal position when my tutor took me by the shoulder and led me to a corner of the room.

“Stay there.”

I did, sobbing and banging my head against the wall with the disgrace.

Then, turning, he looked across at Harry.

“Come here young man.”

Did Harry step forward a little eagerly? In one athletic movement he was at the other side of the room, bent over from the waist, finger tips touching the toecaps of his shoes. Watching on I could see, not for the first time, what a very pretty boy he was.

This was the first time I’d ever seen a boy bending over, touching toes for a whacking. I hadn’t realised how little there was of the boy’s bum for the punisher to aim at.

By stretching over to reach the floor, Harry only had a small part of his backside visible to the tutor. And, Harry’s was pert and tight, leaving even less for the cane to target. If he’d been draped over the back of the armchair or over the dining room table the tutor would have seen much more buttock on display to aim at.

Maybe that’s why a touching-toes caning could be so much more excruciating painful for the naughty boy, with so little room to connect the cane would strike again and again in the same small area, intensifying the pain as the rod hit home, sometimes striking the same spot time and time again.

But, the tutor was an expert: he knew what he was doing. He approached cane in hand. What he saw was a very lithe boy, his curls cascading down towards the floor. Harry’s back was arched and his smooth round buttocks were raised submissively ready for the tutor to do his work with the cane. Harry’s grey short trousers were so taut across his bottom the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

The tutor stood to Harry’s left, a full cane’s length from the boy’s body. He bent his own legs slightly and tapped the edge of the cane against Harry’s left buttock. Tap, tap, tap: taking aim. I saw Harry’s body stiffen slightly in anticipation of the first stroke.

The tutor pulled his cane back way over shoulder height and swished it down with great force into Harry’s trousers. The six strokes landed in quick succession.

‘Get up. Trousers down”

Harry was up in a jiffy. Eager to get on with it, he unbuckled his shorts and they fell to the ground. He hitched up his underpants making sure they were pulled tightly across both cheeks. Then pulling his own shirt up to fully expose his buttocks he bent over again, in position, craving the next six.

Unlike me, Harry was wearing regulation white underpants. Actually, they were so white they sparkled. Just like Harry’s teeth.

Both me and the tutor took in the sight. The underpants fitted Harry’s bum like a second skin. I couldn’t see the front of his pants but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a fine bulge pushing out against the cotton.

Harry’s legs were almost as white as his pants: completely hairless from where I was standing. Did he shave his legs?

Six more stingers cut into Harry. Whack! Whack! It was all over in about ten seconds.

“Up. Get dressed.”

Now, Harry’s face was as white as the pants. He pulled up his shorts. He was in pain, I could see that, the tutor could see that too, but Harry wasn’t letting it get to him. Our eyes met and then I knew: he craved the lash of the tutor. He would have gladly taken six more: and another six after that probably.

Without saying much more, the tutor packed his books and cane away. His work was over for today. He gave brief instructions about what we needed to do for homework and I followed him out the living room to the front door to see him safely on his way.

When I returned Harry had his shorts and pants around his ankles and he was twisting his body to try to get a close look at the damage. I could see a dozen red lines criss-crossing both cheeks. The tutor was an expert master and had laid the cane on with some force. Harry’s cock was standing to attention. I could see he definitely shaved himself down there.

“Show me yours”.

Not feeling the least bit self-conscious in front of Harry, I pulled down my shorts and pants. The searing pain in my backside had subsided a little into a glowing ache. Harry reached forward and ever so gently felt the welts on my backside. I couldn’t help it, but my own cock stirred, perhaps not as proudly as Harry’s own member, but it was on the march.

“Come on, let’s go to your bedroom,” Harry flashed me those goddam teeth. I didn’t need asking twice.

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

Episode 2 of The Private Tutor is here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy at the photocopier

I saw him only once at the photocopier and I could never get him out of my mind again.

I was working on some report or other and casually looked up from my desk. He was at the other end of the open-plan office copying documents.

I only saw him from the back. It was the hottest summer on record and he wore the shortest of shorts, so short they were not much bigger than the briefs he had on underneath. Straps from the back passed over his shoulders and fastened at the front, tugging the denim so tight they fitted like a second skin and highlighted the contours of his buttocks.

His hips were slender and his back straight. I remember his striped T-shirt was tucked into his shorts.

I probably stared open mouthed. I hope not, I wouldn’t want my work colleagues to know my secret.

He took a minute or so to finish his work and walked away. I never saw him again.

z used short shorts (7a)

 

That night, I dreamed of him. He was naked and bent submissively across my knee. With my left hand I ruffled his hair, to let him know I loved him. My fingertips caressed his back as I followed his spine from his neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. My right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

His was breathing easily; he was ready for what I was about to give him. I raised my right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. I smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

I have visualized him in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as I smack a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. I’ve had him across my knee as a soccer player as I spank him on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). A favourite is him dressed only in swimming trunks, he has been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’ and I whack him (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

But my favourite is the boy in those tight denim shorts bent submissively across the photocopier for me to thrash him with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

It was thirty-five years ago and I don’t think a single month has gone by since that I haven’t thought about him.

Young man, I don’t know your name and I never even saw your face, but may I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the innocent pleasure you have given me for the best part of my life.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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