Penalty for ‘Attitude’

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z used study (73)

A cold wind whipped through the quadrangle of St Tom’s school. It was only just four in the afternoon but already the sun had disappeared below the far horizon. Coals blazed in the fireplace of Mr Stanley’s study. The housemaster himself rarely felt the cold. His heavy tweed suit and waistcoat protected him from the worst of the elements. An ancient academic gown, draped from his shoulders, acted like a shawl.

Mr Stanley sat in his heavy leather armchair, leafing through the pages of the Morning Post. The Socialists had been defeated in the recent elections, a new Tory Government was in power for another five years. All was well with the world at large.

Much, Mr Stanley mused, could also be said about the world at St Tom’s. Nothing much changed. God was in his Heaven. He folded the newspaper and hauled himself from the deep leather chair. He dropped the Post onto his desk and slowly took a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. Any moment now …..

As if on cue there was a timid knock on his study door. He allowed a slight, almost unnoticed, smile to curve his mouth. He waited before responding. He knew who was standing outside. Mr Stanley had after all summoned the boy to his study. Let him suffer, he told himself.

Outside in the freezing passageway McAlpine, a recent arrival into the Sixth at St Tom’s, stood hopping from foot to foot. He was eighteen years old, but had only attended the school since the beginning of the term. In the few weeks he had been at St Tom’s he had developed, a reputation for precociousness, with a stubborn inability to remember to address Masters as “Sir.”

Mr Stanley was first to recognize that the good of the House would be best served if McAlpine spent a spell in the study touching his toes. It would improve his attitude somewhat.

Nothing could be more important than a boy’s “attitude”, at St Tom’s. Parents sent their sons to the school to have the attitude knocked out of them. Where would the country be if young people were permitted to display attitude? Obedience. That was what they had to learn. First, how to take orders. Later, how to give them. The British Empire was built on obedience.

“Come!” at last Mr Stanley acknowledged the wretched boy’s presence. He stared intently as the handle slowly turned and the heavy oak door creaked open. McAlpine was a slender youth with a mop of fair curly hair and finely chiseled features, with sensuous shining grey eyes.

He hesitated in the doorframe, uncertain of his next move. “Close the door, boy! Don’t let all the heat out!” Mr Stanley barked. “Right, boy,” he intoned once McAlpine had successfully done this. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers and waved at a point in the middle of the study. He sat behind his desk and closely surveyed the sixth-former. McAlpine was clearly perplexed and very edgy. He chewed on his fat bottom lip. All bravado was gone.

“I have spoken to you before about your attitude,” Mr Stanley had prepared a short speech. “Now, it is time to deal with you.” The housemaster peered into McAlpine’s soul. The boy flinched as if an arrow had shot through him.

“Yes, Sir,” he murmured, his lips pressed tight in concentration and regret. McAlpine showed no signs that confirmed the reports of voluble dissent and disorderliness Mr Stanley had heard of him. He stood timid and fearful awaiting his fate, his eyes moistened. He shivered, although the fire was roaring. He fidgeted while Mr Stanley jawed him.

“And so, McAlpine,” the housemaster had finished his speech, “You deserve to be beaten.” The sixth-former sighed deeply, his pale face flushed. At last he forced out a whisper, “Yes, Sir.”

Mr Stanley hauled himself to his feet, steadied himself and then proceeded with a glide across his study. McAlpine’s eyes followed his master’s procession. It was a large room, made mostly gloomy by the heavy, dark furniture that dominated it. As well as the huge desk there were several heavy, straight-backed chairs. They had not been made for luxury. Towards one corner stood a much more comfortable armchair with a small, low table beside it. The walls were lined with shelves and cupboards.

It was towards one of these cupboards that the housemaster made his way. Reaching his destination, he stopped. His hand delved into a small pocket in his waistcoat. McAlpine stood, wide-eyed and uneasy. At last Mr Stanley found what he was seeking; a small gold key. He unlocked a tall thin cupboard and with his right hand reached in. The rattling sound he made was unmistakable.

Soon he had a light, whippy cane in his hand. It was perhaps three feet in length. He peered at it, tightened his lips and quickly replaced it. He cleared his dry throat with an almost unnoticeable cough and reached in again. He had a selection of canes to suit all bottoms; large, small, tough, and tender. “Aha,” he said, almost to himself. He had a thicker, longer, more dense cane in his hand.

He turned away from the cupboard and swished it through empty air. It made a tremendous swooshing sound as it flew. McAlpine’s eyes shone brightly. The housemaster held the cane close to its crook handle and flexed it between his hands. It bent easily. Mr Stanley straightened his back and peered cross the room at McAlpine. The housemaster swished the cane once more and with an air of finality said sternly, “Stand there, boy.” He pointed his cane to a point on a worn rug close to the middle of the study. “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

McAlpine might have been new to St. Tom’s but he had learned enough to know he had no say in the matter. A summons to the study was not a summit. It wasn’t a debate, a discussion. Mr Stanley was the master; he, McAlpine, was the submissive. If the housemaster ordered, “Touch your toes!” that was the end of the matter. His heartbeat raced and suddenly the palms of his hands felt very sticky as he shuffled across the rug. He reached his point of destination and hesitated.

“Bend over, boy!” Mr Stanley intoned. The cane swiped through the air once more. McAlpine took a deep breath and in one swift athletic movement bent his body double. He took it as Gospel that “toes” meant toes and not knees or shins. His fingertips brushed the caps of his shoes. It was a difficult position to attain, even for a slender, fit eighteen-year-old. There was a tremendous strain on the back of his calves.

Mr Stanley tucked the cane under his arm as he moved closer to the submissive boy. McAlpine presented a good shape, his school blazer flowed around his buttocks. The housemaster took a gentle hold of the tail end and pushed it away from the target area. Now, McAlpine presented two hard, round buttocks. The housemaster gripped the waistband of the boy’s pale-grey trousers and tugged hard. This smoothed creases from the folds of the flannels and lifted and separated each cheek.

“Touch your toes and keep those fingers there, if you move those fingertips, I shall award extra strokes,” Mr Stanley announced. He stared down at the sixth-former bent submissively before him. The back of his neck was glowing bright red. His bottom would be a similar colour very soon.

He stood about a cane’s length from McAlpine’s left and swished the cane through the air one more time. He sucked down a deep breath. His own heart raced equally as fast as the boy offering up his buttocks. The cane was about the thickness of a pencil and just under three feet long. He tapped its tip against the centre of McAlpine’s right cheek; finding his aim.

Tap, tap, tap. Mr Stanley derived satisfaction seeing McAlpine close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with some beef across McAlpine’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the rattan cane bit deep. It had not been a tap, it was a swipe. The housemaster put his full force behind the stroke.

McAlpine’s his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line formed along the boy’s tight trousers.

McAlpine’s eyes blaze, he had a close-up view of the faded red rug. He couldn’t make out the pattern. He examined it closely. Some kind of building? A farmhouse perhaps. He concentrated hard, anything to keep his thoughts from the ordeal he was experiencing.

Mr Stanley flexed his cane once more. He watched McAlpine, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment. “Yes,” he said to himself. “This will beat the ‘Attitude’ out of him.”

McAlpine felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bottom. His trousers and underpants did not protect him. Mr Stanley had really laid it on. The tapping started again. Any moment now. McAlpine braced himself. His buttocks clenched, his eyes screwed up tight. He bit down on his bottom lip.

Swish! Crack! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater force, an inch lower than the first. McAlpine hissed like a steam engine settling down, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. He was out of control, it was his body’s reflex action against the agonising pain.

Another swipe bit deep into his flesh. McAlpine’s buttocks blazed. Mr Stanley was an expert with the cane. He ought to be, he had twenty years and more of experience thrashing boys’ bottoms.

Swipe number four hit the top of his thigh. “Yarooh!” He wriggled his hips left and right. His fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet, remembering just in time, the awful penalty for such an action. He most certainly did not want extra strokes. But, the cut was low, too low. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much. It felt like Mr Stanley had pressed a red-hot poker from the fire against the back of his thighs.

Mr Stanley’s own eyes glowered. He paused, allowing himself a moment of self-congratulation. McAlpine was suffering. Good! The boy needed to be taught some manners. He had to learn his place in society. He waited upwards of thirty seconds while McAlpine settled down. He took a careful aim. The previous swipe had struck low, the next would go high. McAlpine’s buttocks were hard and round. Mr Stanley bounced the cane off the top of the mounds and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. “Good,” he told himself, “the young scoundrel deserves it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.”

McAlpine breathed hard. His temples pounded. The back of his throat was raw. Waves of pain shot up and down his legs. Perspiration soaked the back of his shirt. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched trousers in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks.

He heard footsteps on the floorboards. From the corner of his eye he saw Mr Stanley adjusting his position. Now he placed the cane at a diagonal across both of McAlpine’s cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. The sixth-former tensed his whole body. His shoulders shook. Whop! The cane sailed at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bottom, intersecting the welts already weeping under the boy’s underwear. It set each of them ablaze once more.

McAlpine gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he stayed down. Like generations of schoolboys before him, he refused to reveal to his master how much he was hurt. He felt as if he had sat on a coal fire.

Mr Stanley slowly paced his office and opened the door to his cupboard. He replaced the cane before turning slowing to admire his handiwork. McAlpine was still bent double, touching toes submissively.

“Up you get,” Mr Stanley barked. Slowly, McAlpine unfolded himself. He stood unsteadily, feet apart, his moist eyes downcast. His bottom roared. His heartbeat was slowing, returning closer to normal. He desperately wanted to rub away at the pain. But, that would have to wait until he was dismissed from the housemaster’s study.

Slowly, the housemaster returned to his desk. He slumped into his chair, suddenly noticing his own tiredness. He leaned toward the inferior boy and growled. “I trust McAlpine you have learned your lesson?” He paused for dramatic effect rather than in expectation of an answer. The tip of his tongue darted through his almost closed lips. “If not and you are before me again, we shall see how much you like my cane with your trousers and underwear at your feet. Do I make myself clear?”

This time, he did expect a response. McAlpine croaked an almost inaudible: “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed,” the housemaster waved his hand and watched with deep satisfaction as McAlpine hobbled to the door.

Picture credit: Charles H Chapman, The Magnet

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Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Colonel Blincoe’s folly

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z used folly 4

The tower in Colonel Blincoe’s garden had originally been built as one those architectural follies by an eccentric gentlemen back in the midst of history. Or, about 1920, as local folklore had it. It was built of brick in the shape of a cone and consisted of two small rooms one on top of the other, with a small balcony attached to the outside. You reached the upper floor by a staircase that ran around the outside making it look a little like an old-fashioned fairground helter-skelter. From the upper floor and the balcony it was just possible to see over high garden walls and hedges into neighbouring gardens. To facilitate his enjoyment of this facility, the colonel had purchased a pair of high-powered ex-military field glasses.

None of his neighbours was aware that the colonel would pass away lonely days peering through the binoculars, investigating nearby houses. He rarely saw anything of interest. After all, what was there to see? This was The Avenue, one of the most highly-desirable residential streets in Brocklehurst, one hardly expected to see an opium den in operation. Nor, was there ever likely to be a murder committed. The colonel had hoped he might get a small thrill catching a couple “at it” in their beds, but his near neighbours had reached the age where that sort of thing had become very rare indeed.

So, it was with no great expectation that one afternoon late in the summer he removed his field glasses from their leather box and polished the lenses. The Braithwaites in the house next door were not at home, or so he expected. He had seen suitcases being piled into a taxi the previous Saturday and Mrs Braithwaite had climbed inside. His neighbours were, the colonel supposed, off on holidays. He thought no more of it until he noticed a movement inside the house. It was from an upper window. Burglars! The colonel’s aged heart beat faster. He had caught them red-handed. Damn! he cussed himself mildly, there was no telephone in his tower and he had never felt the need to acquire one of those new-fangled portable phone things. He couldn’t call the police. Instead, he resolved to use his binoculars and observe as much as he could. He would make notes, of the criminals’ descriptions and such like and hand them over to the authorities in due course.

He only had a partial view of the room. In fact, most of it was obscured and all he could see clearly was that space directly in front of the smallish sash window. He cursed once more and settled himself as close to his own window as was possible. He focussed the glasses and waited. There was definitely a figure in the room; a man, and quite elderly too, he thought. The colonel saw him from the back. He wore a weighty tweed jacket and dark-grey flannel trousers. The colonel was puzzled: that didn’t seem to be the correct attire for burglary. He hardly expected the man to wear a striped vest and be carrying a bag marked “swag” but a warm summer’s day required something a little less formal.

There seemed to be another man in the room. He was speaking to a companion. Two of them! The colonel’s heart beat faster. He was a keen reader of crime fiction of the more traditional variety. For a moment he imagined himself as the village sleuth, the “amateur” who captures the criminal that the local detectives cannot find. He licked his lips in anticipation of the excitement ahead. Then, the man turned and his face was fully visible. The colonel’s balloon popped. It was Mr Braithwaite himself. In his own home. Not a burglar at all. What of the holiday trip, the colonel wondered.

His disappointment was short-lived. No robbery was in place but something queer was afoot. Now, he saw the other man. He was younger and perhaps not a man at all. He wore a green school blazer and as the boy moved across the window the colonel clearly saw he was dressed in pale-grey short trousers. He disappeared from view leaving the colonel once again perplexed. The school uniform looked remarkably like that worn by boys at St Francis Independent Grammar School, the most upscale school in the district, but to his uncertain knowledge the boys did not wear short trousers. And, wasn’t the boy too old for such trousers? He adjusted the focus and peered intently at the window.

Seconds later he was rewarded by a clear view. It wasn’t a small boy at all. He wasn’t any kind of boy. The colonel recognised him at once. He knew him reasonably well. Without a doubt it was Bobby, the barman at The Three Fishers, the unsavoury hostelry the colonel himself frequented. What the hell was going on? He was definitely dressed in school uniform, the colonel could see the blazer, striped tie and grey shirt as clear as day.

Mr Braithwaite said something to Bobby and the boy turned. He said something back and then disappeared from view, only to return two seconds later carrying a wooden chair. The colonel recognised the chair, he had some quite like it in his own house. A straight-backed armless thing, the kind that went with a dining table. Bobby placed it on the floor with its back directly in front of the window. The colonel couldn’t hear anything as the house was too far away but he sensed Bobby was listening to something Mr Braithwaite said. Then Mr Braithwaite came into view. The colonel’s heart stopped for a second. His mouth dried of all saliva. Perspiration moistened his bald dome.

Mr Braithwaite carried a thin, whippy school-type cane. The colonel recognised it at once. It had a curved handle just like the ones masters used at St. Tom’s, the elite boarding school he had attended more than fifty years earlier. The colonel’s jaw tightened. The tip of his tongue poked out his mouth and ran along his bottom lip. Then his jaw dropped. It literally fell. He gaped. Bobby unfastened the snake-shaped buckle of his belt. Then, staring right out of the window and not looking at his hands, Bobby popped the button at the top of his short trousers and when the waistband hung open by an inch, he gripped the metal fly zipper and tugged. The short trousers slithered down his thighs, past his knees, and the colonel supposed (because this was out of his sight) fell in a puddle at his feet. Bobby stood straight ahead, hands behind his back, offering the colonel a perfect view of his gleaming white Y-front underpants. They fitted snugly, confirming to the colonel that this was no boy.

Mr Braithwaite must have given Bobby an instruction because his face flushed and still intent on staring out of the window he put both thumbs inside the waistband of the pants and slowly helped them down so they passed over his buttocks and travelled south to meet the short trousers. Then, Bobby stood once more hands behind his back, presumably to await further orders. The colonel’s hands shook slightly as he adjusted the focus on the glasses. He honed in on Bobby’s naked cock and balls, cursing all the while: the back of the wooden chair obscured them from his view.

Mr Braithwaite passed into the frame. He held the thin, swishy cane between his hands, flexing it thoughtfully. In a trice the colonel was transported back fifty years. He is in the housemaster’s study. It is early summer, no window is open and the room is airless. Mr Corlett is jawing him. “Attitude,” he intones. “Lazy,” he adds. “A disgrace,” he concludes. “You will never pass your examinations and go up to university.” Corlett flexes the cane, just as Mr Braithwaite was doing in the house across the garden. “Good God boy!” Corlett rages, “If you don’t get to university, you’ll have to join the Army!” The housemaster swishes the cane through the air. “Trousers, underwear down. Bend over the chair,” and at the age of eighteen the not-yet colonel submitted his bared bottom to the savage Mr Corlett.

The memory passed through the colonel’s mind at the speed of light. It had been a comfortable leather armchair in his case but the principle was much the same as the scenario being played out in front of him. “Bend over. Brace yourself. This is going to hurt. It is meant to. Otherwise, we should both be wasting our time.” Bobby held onto the chair, his head bowed and face hovering above the wooden seat. His back was arched and his legs spread. Mr Braithwaite stood behind him, he took hold of the end of the blazer and pushed it up the boy’s back. He did the same with the tail of his shirt. The colonel cussed that Bobby was not positioned the other way round; bare bottom facing the window. He saw the boy close his eyes and shut his teeth tight. Mr Braithwaite tapped the cane across the centre of Bobby’s bum. He took aim, raised the cane, held it in mid-air for a couple of seconds and then with forearm thrust he swiped it across Bobby’s naked haunches. The look of anguish on the boy’s face as the cane bit deep into his flesh was priceless. The colonel saw his mouth open and close but the boy’s yell and obvious distress did not travel. The colonel might have been watching a silent movie.

Mr Braithwaite took two steps back, examined Bobby’s backside with a malevolent eye, raised the cane high and rushed forward while simultaneously whipping the cane home. Hard! Bobby leapt to his feet; still the colonel couldn’t hear the boy’s shrieks but it was beyond doubt that he was in some distress. The colonel’s own backside twitched in sympathy. Had, his own housemaster at school beaten him as hard? The years had dulled his memory and he could not say for certain. It had been excruciatingly painful to sit down after that final thrashing. He had eaten his tea that afternoon standing at the mantlepiece in the study; he couldn’t use a chair for some considerable time.

He watched Bobby resume his position. What a trooper he was, the colonel decided, but why did he do it? Why let Mr Braithwaite cane his bare backside so viciously? Did the man have some “hold” over the barman. Perhaps, he had caught him stealing bar takings. “It’s a thrashing from me or I go to the police!” It was possible, the colonel supposed, but unlikely. What would the police or the law courts do about it? Bobby would end up with a slapped wrist at worst, not a blisteringly sore bum. Such was the state of the nation these days.

z used cane bare chair seen through window school

No, the colonel saw it all now and he did not approve. What was it they called young men like Bobby? Rent boys? Bah! Disgusting. The colonel watched Mr Braithwaite flog twelve stingers across Bobby’s backside. He could only imagine what the once creamy-white flesh looked like. Certainly there were deep red lines all across his cheeks. Welts would be weeping. Bobby himself was beyond weeping, tears washed his face as unashamedly he howled and howled.

Mr Braithwaite gave some instruction and the boy let go of the chair and straightened himself up. He hopped up and down like some demented Red Indian in a bad Western movie and rubbed away at his throbbing rear end. He hobbled away from the window and out of the colonel’s view. Mr Braithwaite had already vanished. The colonel waited disappointed. His own heartbeat was racing off the scale. He had once suffered a mild cardiac arrest and he didn’t want another. He put the field glasses on a chair nearby and bent double to suck in great gasps of air; soon he was calming down.

He shuffled across the room, opened a small refrigerator and took out a bottle. Within moments he was sipping on a reviving gin-and-tonic. “Well, well, well,” he said aloud although he lived alone and there was no one to hear him. “Who would have thought it? The things that go on behind closed doors in respectable suburbia.” He would see Bobby the barman at The Three Fishers in a new, harsher light from now on. He went back to the window in the vain hope he would see more action. The room was empty; he had to concede it was over.

“Perverts,” he snorted, as he rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs, rearranging the gypsy-style dress that he wore over pale-cream gossamer-light knickers.

Picture credits: The Folly Fellowship / Unknown

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A school-leaving present

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used cane hold white pants down armchair school Hornet

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

“Keep the bottom still, boy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Hornet (Sting Pictures)

 

Other stories you might enjoy

Housemaster’s double caning  

Late up in the morning

Late at the office

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Rory and Alistair Ep 2. The Junior Schoolmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life. The eighteen year olds were oddities at Willadong Academy. They were required to dress like juniors and would remain in short trousers until the day they left school. They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Alexander Macaulay the junior schoolmaster stalked the passageways of Willadong Academy, a cane tucked under his arm. He was determined it would see action before the afternoon was out.

It was Wednesday and at Willadong that was a time for compulsory sports. If Macaulay found a boy in the building that would be excuse enough. If no abstainer was to be found he could instigate a room search, seeking hidden contraband. Cigarettes and alcohol and much else besides were strictly banned at the school.

Alexander Macaulay was an unhappy young man. This was his second month at the school and things were not going well. He was twenty-four years old; and to many casual observers indistinguishable from the senior pupils. He stood no taller than five-feet-seven-inches and was lean and wiry. His smooth complexion was deeply suntanned but the thin straggly moustache he sported belied his age. He was a boy trying to be a man. He did not possess the “gravitas” required to be a schoolmaster and probably never would.

The tingling he still felt in his backside confirmed this. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Less than thirty minutes previously he had been in the study of Willadong’s senior master Mr. Henderson; bent across a stout desk, trousers at his ankles. Henderson swiped nine hard cuts across the junior schoolmaster’s swaying buttocks.

Henderson said it was “attitude.” Macaulay must “buck up his ideas.” He must show he was worthy of the title, junior master at Willadong Academy. Until such a time, Macaulay must expect to be treated as if he were a pupil. “Trousers down, bend over.”

Now, Alexander Macaulay was on the prowl. Somebody must pay for his humiliation.

Rory and Alistair lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms. They had had sex enthusiastically, but inexpertly. Alistair’s cock was stiff at a forty-five degree angle. It was ready for round two.

Fresh weals decorated the buttocks of the two eighteen year olds. They were the handiwork of Mr. Anderson, their housemaster. It had been six on the bare. They were repeat offenders.

The pain had gone now, but there was one deep cut across the very centre of Rory’s bum that was tender to touch. The cane had landed on the same spot twice. A slash that landed across the back of his thighs troubled Alistair. That should teach him not to wriggle about during a caning.

Some boys were not suited to boarding school life. Roy and Alistair were two of them. There were too many rules and restrictions. The two pals were not resentful. They had broken curfew – again. Rules were rules at Willadong and when they were broken a lad would expect to be showing his arse to a prefect or a master.

Rory freed himself from Alistair’s embrace and lay face down on the bed inviting his chum to inspect his wounds. The teenager licked his own index finger and gently used it to trace from one end to the other of the deep welt across Rory’s bum. It had once been a deep pink, but now was mauve. It would turn purple soon, and then over the next few days it would lighten to yellow and finally disappear.

Alistair created a spit ball in his mouth and washed his tongue with it. Then he licked Rory’s cut, sending a shiver through the teenager’s body and leaving a slime trial across the buttocks. Rory’s cock throbbed almost as much as his bottom had just after his thrashing.

In the distance the school clock struck three o’clock. The boys were missing compulsory cricket practice. Who cared? What was another spanking between friends?

Rory turned on his back and Alistair snuggled up beside him. They took hold of each other’s cocks and tugged.

….

It was Wednesday afternoon; sports and activities day at Willadong. Rory and Alistair were keen cricketers and part of the school XI team. They should have been with their fellows practising. It was a scorching hot day; like so many that summer. The cricketers were broiling so had left their whites behind in favour of the shortest cotton running shorts they could find. Some wore vests but most were bare-chested.

Cpt. Cameron their PT instructor and cricket coach was not a happy man. He had been absent from the school and had engaged a man called Villiars from the village to stand in. Cricket was a gentleman’s game but the sixth-formers at Willadong had been far from gentlemen to Villiars. Willadong boys considered themselves superior to the common man and were not about to be ordered about by a village oik like Villiars.

But now Cameron was back and he did not like what Villairs had told him. Not one little bit.

That was why six eighteen-year-old cricketers were lined up in the pavilion facing Cameron. The PT instructor held a dirty-white plimsoll tightly in his right hand. It was a large slipper and rather worn on the sole. It had seen much action on the running track and also across the bending backsides of errant schoolboys.

He devised a little ritual. The eighteen year olds stood in a line, backs to the wall. Then on command each one stepped forward three paces towards Cameron. They swivelled on their heels, lowered their white shorts (none were wearing underpants in that heat) and touched their toes; knees straight. Three of the six teenagers wore no shirt so were totally naked bent over obediently with their tight cotton shorts in a puddle at their feet. It was a typical schoolboy ritual; each one presenting himself submissively to his master.

Schoolboy cricketers come in many shapes and sizes. There is no requirement to have an “athletic” body; “big and meaty” could as easily fit the bill. Six sets of naked buttocks were displayed that afternoon: fat and squashy; large and firm; pert and pimply.

Cameron had the perfect view of each boy’s cock and balls and, of course, his crack. But the middle-aged ex-Army officer was not interested in any of that. Discipline and punishment were uppermost in his mind. He gripped the plimsoll tightly and whacked it down across flesh. Two spanks on the left cheek; followed by two on the right.

Then, the boy stood, pulled up his shorts and went back to the wall, to be replaced by the next boy.

And so it went on until all six teenagers had the dark pink outline of the slipper emblazoned across both buttocks.

It looked spectacular, but it didn’t really hurt. Not like four slashes from the headmaster’s special Malacca cane would have if he had learned of the boys’ discourtesy to Villiars.

….

Alexander Macaulay was despondent. Somebody must pay for his humiliation. He had searched the classrooms without success. No boy was to be found. Now, he made his way through the living quarters. Again, there was no sign of life.

He searched through the study rooms. The boys seemed to have very few personal possessions. For the sons of the wealthy they were very poor indeed, he concluded. The boys would have found the junior master’s naivety touching. They were wiser than that. No self-respecting boy would leave contraband in his room for prying eyes to find. It was secreted in cubbyholes and nooks and crannies across the school; places unknown to the likes of Alexander Macaulay.

He was close to the end of his tour. Only one passageway was left unexplored. The junior master let himself into an unlocked room. As with the others, there was not much there. He opened and closed cupboards and drawers. He was exasperated with himself: what had he expected to find?

Idly he pushed a textbook across a desk. The corner of a picture poked out from between its pages. He tugged it free. It was a page ripped from a magazine. A picture. A captivating photograph.

Two young men, in their twenties, standing side by side grinned at the camera. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were sailors. At least they wore sailors’ hats on the backs of their heads, but little else besides. Only the shortest of denim shorts. The waistbands were unbuttoned and their zippers lowered, enticingly. Their chests were hairless and stomachs tight and flat.

z used Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland (2)

The boy on the right was particularly enchanting. His dark curly hair fell across his forehead emphasising his dreamy brown eyes.

Carefully, Macaulay folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket. Then, fearing he might be caught, he tip-toed from the room.

There was now only one room left unvisited.

Voices. He could hear voices from behind the door. Success. Finally. His afternoon would not be wasted.

Had the junior master been less junior; he would have recognised the room, if not necessarily the voices of its occupants. And, he would have known better than to burst open the door without warning.

Rory and Alistair lay naked. Spent. Breathing hard. Their exertions had been great. Semen covered each boy’s stomach.

Alexander Macaulay stood in the doorway startled. Instinctively, his eyes focused on Alistair’s cock. The junior master had seen nothing like it before. It was flaccid and limp, but even relaxed it was an awesome specimen. And uncut. He had never before seen an uncut cock.

Macaulay blushed deeply. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not get words to form.

Rory raised himself to a sitting position. He stared at the intruder to his room. He only vaguely knew the identity of the stranger. The cane tucked under the junior master’s arm confirmed he was trouble.

“Wha.. wha…?” Macaulay tried again to speak, aware that he could not stop gaping at the two naked sixth-formers before him. One of them, not the one with the huge cock, reminded him of the boy in the picture.

Rory flashed a grin, his dark brown eyes sparkled, but he said nothing, silenced by the sight of the bulge now growing in the front of the visitor’s trousers.

Alistair had seen it too. The caller was quite attractive in a nerdy shy way, he thought.

The junior schoolmaster slipped the cane from his arm into his hand, as if ready for disciplinary action.

Rory roared with laughter.

Macaulay stood rooted, unsure what to do next. He watched as Alistair sat up and the two boys embraced; just like the two sailors. The throbbing in his pants was excruciating.

Alistair giggled, “Don’t stand there all day. Get your clothes off. You can squeeze between us.”

He stopped short, felled by the Macaulay’s face of thunder. The junior schoolmaster wanted revenge for his earlier humiliation. Now he was going to get it.

“No!” He had found his voice at last. He might have been a schoolmaster for only two months, but he understood and relished the power he had over the two teenagers. They must submit to his cane. The consequences of refusal would be dire: a flogging from the headmaster and possible expulsion from the school.

Macaulay swished the cane through the air. He stared Alistair in the eye and slowly and deliberately said, “Let’s have you on your feet and over that chair.” He wobbled the cane at a small straight-backed chair.

To his delight, the boys rose from the bed without question. Alistair clutched the chair and placed it in the centre of the room.

Macaulay’s heart raced. He had never felt such power before. The boys would submit to his will. He watched Alistair make the preparations and start to bend his body over the chair.

No, Macaulay thought. I’ll do the cute one first.

“You,” he pointed at Rory, realising that he didn’t know the names of either boy before him. “You first.”

Rory smiled. It nearly broke the schoolmaster’s young heart.

Rory didn’t fit in at Willadong Academy. It did not suit his personality, but he rarely resented the treatment he received at the school. He broke the rules, he got punished and life went on.

But, not this time. Rory was not a man of the world, but he understood enough. The throbbing cock beneath the schoolmaster’s trousers did not lie. Macaulay was about to beat him on the bared backside for his own sexual gratification. Later, the schoolmaster would pleasure himself while he relived this afternoon in his head.

Rory despised Macaulay for his hypocrisy. He would thrash him and his friend for fooling around. Yet, the schoolmaster so clearly wanted him.

Even before Rory gripped the hard wooden seat, he had devised a plan. Later, sometime soon, he would entice the schoolmaster to a dark secluded part of the school. He knew many such places. Macaulay wouldn’t be able to resist. It wouldn’t take long. A schoolmaster. Sex. A male pupil. There was no need to spell it out.

Rory closed his eyes, clamped his teeth shut and offered up his already corrugated buttocks to the lash of the cane.

Picture credit: Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

Other stories you might like

 

The Boy at the Service Station

Saturday School

The Decorator

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

I recently uploaded my 500th story to this website – thanks to everyone for your support.  I know it can sometimes be difficult to navigate your way around to find stories on the topics that interest you. To help you a little, back in 2016 I started to collect together stories on the same theme and upload them as free-of-charge e-books.

Here is one of the earliest: The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click the link below for the book in a PDF file

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Picture credit: Unknown

A further episode involving The Private Tutor is here

The private tutor: 4

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The bully

new story 2

z used gym sport shorts horse waiting sting (31)

I am watching Aitkens. He seems to be waiting patiently for me to begin. He is prostrate across a gym horse, dressed in his PE kit: white shorts and vest. The horse is a little high and he is on tip-toes so he can stretch his body across it to grip the two front legs. This makes his back arch and his buttocks are pointing at me at an angle.

I am surprised how big he is but I don’t know why I should be. He is eighteen years old and one of our prefects. He’s in the rugby team and I suppose his bulk is a virtue on the pitch. The muscles in his arms and his legs are straining as he hold his position.

I can’t read his mind. Is he submissive? Certainly, he did not put up a struggle when I told him of my intentions. Nor, did he protest. Why would he? Why could he? He deserves everything that is coming to him.

The gym is empty, it is shortly after four in the afternoon and school is over for the day. I bet Aitkens wishes he was with his pals, on the bus into town, where they will hang around the shopping centre, leering at girls (or whatever it is boys his age do these days). Not this afternoon. At least not yet; he has an appointment with me first.

I flex the heavy cane between my hands. It is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It’s dark brown in colour with notches along it every six inches or so. As I bend the cane I can tell it is more powerful than the rattan canes we usually use. It’s called a Dragon, I believe. It’s property is that it’s denser than other canes and it packs more of a punch. Properly applied it will leave severe marks and bruising on a boy’s backside. Good. Aitkens deserves everything that is due to him. I hope by the time I am finished he won’t be able to sit for a week.

Aitkens is a bully. It is as simple as that. Pathetic, isn’t it. This big, strong sixth-form boy has made a career out of stealing dinner money from the juniors. If they don’t cough up the cash, he quite literally bashes them. I should correct myself there. I don’t believe he has bashed any of the kids, the mere threat of violence is enough to make them hand over the dosh.

I can’t be sure how long it’s been going on, but I have every reason to believe it has been a considerable time. At last we have found him out. Now, he will get his just deserts. I look at him over the horse, he is still, waiting, staring down at the wooden floor of the gym. Is he remorseful? Does he regret his shameful action? There must be some regret surely, but I suspect it might only be the regret of being found out.

I want him expelled from the school. We should chuck him and all bullies out on their ears. That would be a deterrent for other louts who think they can torment their juniors. I wanted him out but I know the headmaster would never countenance it. It will be too public a gesture. It will draw attention to the school. Parents will demand answers to awkward questions: how did we allow bullying to take place? How much is still going on?

No, it is better to keep the matter within the confines of the school. To hush it up, if you will. So, here we are this late afternoon. Me with the cane in my hand and Aitkens bent across the horse with his backside pointing out. I’m annoyed that the school rules only allow me to administer a maximum six strokes. Damn, stupid rules. Aitkens deserves to suffer badly for all the pain he has caused others.

The rule says he can only be caned on the seat “as normally clothed”. That is supposed to mean wearing trousers and pants. I would gladly thrash him on the bare buttocks. And, yes, so hard and so often that he bleeds. There, I’ve said it. He is a lout. He is not a mischievous little boy deserving a short, sharp shock. He is not a lazy bones in need of encouragement.

So, it is to be six on the seat as normally clothed. Aitkens is presenting his backside to me in tight fitting cotton gym shorts without underwear. If some blasted school governor wants to argue it out with me later I’ll tell him Aitkens is as “normally clothed”. That’s as normally clothed for a gym class. Aitkens made no protest when I instructed him to present himself to me dressed in this fashion. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the school rules. That’s his look out. I wonder if I could risk ripping down his shorts and giving him six stingers on the bare. Would he tell on me? Sadly, it’s best not to find out. The headmaster would not support me and it would be me out on the tiles, as it were, and not Aitkens.

I am only allowed six strokes so I will make them count. I discussed how best to do this in the staff room earlier and Hopkins, the Head of Mathematics, told me how the prefects caned a boy at his school back in the day. They would have the boy positioned over a desk (but any piece of furniture would suffice) and they would rub their cane across the centre of the boy’s bum to get an aim, then they would stride away for five or six paces and then raise the cane high above their shoulder and take a run up before flogging it into the waiting bum. “It would take his arse off,” Hopkins told me with great satisfaction.

I am not so sure that I can do that with Aitkens. I think it takes a great deal of skill to get the cane to land on target. So much could go wrong in the run up. I might miss the target altogether. I suppose that wouldn’t matter too much if the cane whipped him across the back of the thighs; that would be excruciatingly painful and would surpass any agony Aitkens might feel from an orthodox caning.

I suppose if I wanted to thrash him on the thighs, I could just do it. I mean I just need to stand beside the boy as I would in ordinary circumstances and whip the Dragon into him there, rather than across the backside. It is a temptation.

I decide not to go in for the athletic approach. I stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s length) and rub the heavy rod across the curves of his cheeks. At such close proximity I see that he seems entirely relaxed; unconcerned that he is about to be beaten. His backside is rather meaty and although this is not entirely necessary I allow myself to rub the palm of my right hand across his contours. I smile gently as his bottom quivers in response to my caress. I pat him twice on each cheek as if to say I am ready to go.

This message makes him wriggle his hips and shake his bottom from left to right. He grips the wooden legs of the gym horse tightly. Aha! He is not so unconcerned after all. He opens his eyes wide and seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the scratched wooden floorboards in his line of vision. I tap the cane across his shorts. I intend an uppercut. That is to say I will whip the cane from below so that it bites into the undercurves of his cheeks. I will put all my beef into it and should be rewarded with a thick welt. It will be in the exact part of his bum that connects with a chair whenever he sits. He will, I hope, feel it for some considerable time to come.

I find my aim and draw the cane back. It wobbles as it rises. I hold it high and steady for a moment and am delighted to see Aitkens’ bum clench tightly. It is now as hard as rubber. As a devoted golfer I have a superior upper body strength. I use every ounce of it as I flog the cane into the seat of his shorts. Bingo! A perfect hit. The cane sinks into his flesh and seems to remain embedded there for a second. Another second passes before “Yeow!!” Aitkens felt that all right. He grips the legs of the horse tighter. His knees buckle under the pain. His buttocks wobble.

I stand back and admire my handiwork. A clear line where the cane struck is visible across his white shorts. I can’t see it but I know there is a livid red welt forming under the cotton. Satisfied with my effort so far, I take aim again. Sometimes with a caning a master will go “round the circuit”. By that I mean he will try to strike as much of the buttocks as humanly possible, leaving not a square inch of bottom un-scorched. There are many merits in that approach. The boy is undoubtedly left sore. But I wanted Aitkens to encounter maximum agony. Since I have discounted the “run-up” approach I intend to go for Plan-B.

Plan-B is simple. For it to succeed I must lay the cane on the same spot as often as I can. This means that the welt that already throbs on his backside will be reignited if I can land the cane on top of it. You get the picture? It will double the pain. Think then how it will be if there are six strokes. I might be able to achieve my ambition of drawing blood.

I take my aim and whack him as hard as I would if beating a carpet. Spot on! His head rises and falls and he stamps his legs up and down. “Huff, huff, huff.” I can’t quite describe the sound he makes, but wind is whistling through his lips. The back of his neck is scarlet, as I suppose is his once-creamy backside.

I take a third swipe. It lands just below the other two. Aitkens yells. Oh how I wish I had been able to give the bully a public thrashing. How the youngsters he bullied for so long would enjoy seeing him reduced to this. I stand back to take in the scene. His knuckles are white, he is holding the horse so tightly. His short, fairish hair is soaked in sweat. It looks like he has just stepped out of the shower. I take a gentle stroll so that I can now see Aitkens from the front. I am delighted to observe his once-open and rather handsome face is now distorted like that of a gargoyle. Good, I hope he is suffering.

Number four hits right on target. He does the wriggling and the stomping and the yelling once more. I congratulate myself. I am on fire. And so is Aitkens’ backside. Tears are flowing freely. I did not expect this. Senior boys do not as a rule cry during a caning. That is something we expect from a junior boy, subjecting himself to corporal punishment for the first time. Again, I rue the fact that Aitkens’ victims cannot see this.

I stand close to Aitkens. His shorts are tight and I can clearly see the effects of my caning. His under-cheeks are corrugated. I want to know if there is blood. I can’t see any so I press my hand into Aitkens’ flayed bottom. Of course, he roars with the pain. The cotton of his shorts is pressing into the welts and I hope to see traces of blood. Alas, there is none. Disappointed, I take up my position once more, determined to rectify this.

I surprise myself with the ferocity of stroke number five. I have found reserves of strength I did not know I had. It was another uppercut and as it whizzes through the air and cracks into his buttocks I am sure it slices them open. That one should have taken his arse off, to use Hopkins’ very apt phrase. Aitkens is in deep distress. Manfully, he keeps his position, head low, bottom high, despite the tears and the snot flowing down his face. I ought to admire his fortitude but I can only hope the humiliation he feels outweighs his all too obvious agony.

One final stroke to go. I hesitate. I dearly want to know what his savaged backside looks like. I have a last chance to achieve my ambition. Shall I rip down his shorts so I can examine the naked flesh beneath? I know I am not permitted to beat him on the bare, but am I also not allowed to do this? I will allow him to pull them up before I deliver the final lash.

I take the coward’s way out. I do not want the aggravation that will come if Aitkens sneaks on me to the headmaster. So for the last time, I take aim. I go for the middle of the red, throbbing stripe of flesh. By now it must feel to Aitkens like he has been sitting on the glowing bar of an electric fire.

Whoop! Bulls Eye! I stand back only now realising that I gripped the cane so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. My pulse is racing and I am suddenly aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of my shirt. I stare disinterestedly at the eighteen-year-old writhing over the top of the horse. Yes, he is crying but I despise him because he is not more hurt. Given my way they would be calling for a medic at this point.

I do not want to let him go but really what choice do I have? Six strokes is the maximum I am allowed to give. It is no consolation that I delivered six-of-the-very-best. Aitkens, nor any other boy at this school, would have suffered such a caning before. But, that is no comfort.

“Get up. Go!” I rasp and Aitkens hauls himself to his feet. He dares not look at me and unsteadily he sashays across the gym towards the exit. I watch him as he goes. I tuck the cane under my arm and prepare to leave, a dark cloud of dissatisfaction over my head.

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