All is well in the world

new 5

Harry Clifton was in no hurry. He ambled across the quadrangle. It was a fine day in early summer. The sun shone. The sky was blue. It was all in all a beautiful day. Except is wasn’t a fine day. Not for Harry Clifton, the sixth-form pupil at St. Francis Independent Grammar School; the soon-to-be former pupil of said school. The final exams were only weeks away. Then freedom. The end of school. Whoever it was who said schooldays were the happiest days of your life was an ass. Surely, Harry Clifton supposed, things could only get better after St FIGS.

Harry Clifton was on to something there. He knew as sure as eggs was eggs that this present day could never count as one of the best of his life. Ha! He almost smiled the best. Not so much the best, but six-of-the-best. It was a weak joke, but it was the best that Harry Clifton could come up with. He passed through the entrance of Founder’s Building and into a short, dark passageway. He was answering the summons of his headmaster. Chaps were only called to the Beak for one reason and one reason alone. There could be no doubt about it. Harry Clifton was in for a bowing. A swishing. A caning. Six-of-the-best.

Harry Clifton knew this for certain because St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline. No matter how slowly he walked Harry Clifton would eventually reach the heavy oak door of the headmaster’s study. He might delay his ordeal by a few seconds, but he could not put it off forever. He paused outside the door and ran his hand through his unruly hair. He rubbed each shoe against the back of his trouser leg. They were far from shining, but they would have to do. He made sure all three buttons on his green-and-gold woollen blazer were correctly fastened. All was ship shape and Bristol fashion. He was under starter’s orders. Ready for the off. About to go over the top. He drew down a deep draught of air, formed a fist with his right hand, raised it, and with more confidence than he truly felt, he rapped on the door.

Silence. Nothing. He craned his neck and placed his ear closer to the door. Was the headmaster not at home? Had he been called away on an urgent mission? Did this spell a reprieve for Harry Clifton? No, the senior sixth-former considered. The Beak had probably not heard. He bunched his fist again and was about to have another go at the door when a clear, sonorous voice rang out from the other side, “Come!” The headmaster had heard all right, he was only playing his silly games.

Harry Clifton sucked in air once more, gripped the handle and pushed the heavy door open. He hesitated on the threshold of the study. “Come in boy, don’t dawdle,” the headmaster rasped. Harry Clifton jolted forward and landed in front of the headmaster’s vast walnut desk. “Pah! Close the door Clifton! Close the door,” the Beak thundered.

With that task completed Harry Clifton once more stood before the headmaster. The Beak presented an imposing character, drenched in ugliness. Standing, he made a tall, lank, almost skeletal figure. His gaunt face, was heavily lined. His aquiline nose and thin pointed chin made the appearance of a caricatured witch. He wheezed through his nose. His dark piercing eyes transfixed on the boy before him.

For his part Harry Clifton resolved not to meet that alarming gaze. He focused on a spot over the headmaster’s shoulder, at a hat stand in the corner of the room. It was an ancient beat-about piece of furniture, old enough to be steeped in the tradition of the school. It had served many headmasters at St FIGS over countless generations. The number of hats it had supported over the years was a matter lost to history. The present headmaster had an additional requirement for the furniture. Harry Clifton’s gaze transfixed on the three long, thin whippy rattan canes that dangled by their curved handles. Small and relatively unobtrusive though they were, to the boy standing awaiting punishment they dominated the study.

Harry Clifton swallowed hard. The canes were of differing thicknesses, densities and lengths but he knew with absolute certainty that in the hands of the headmaster any one of these rods would “take his backside off” as the schoolboy slang then circulating had it. Alongside the canes hung the headmaster’s black academic gown and the flat mortar-board cap, the official uniform of schoolmasters across the land. The badge of office. The seal of power.

Harry Clifton did not concentrate on his droning headmaster. The room was hot and airless and the monotonous voice was sleep-inducing. Suddenly there was silence. A long, pregnant pause. “Well boy!” the headmaster barked. Harry Clifton shook awake, the headmaster leaned from his chair forward over the large desk, his black piggy eyes blazed, “What have you to say for yourself?”

At a loss to the question he had been asked, Harry Clifton mumbled an all-purpose reply. Schoolboys up and down the land and throughout history when carpeted in the headmaster’s study were required to utter these words at some point in the proceedings, most often immediately before the real action began. “Sorry, Sir,” he coughed, his throat irritatingly dry.

“Bah!” the headmaster ejaculated and leaned back in his chair, his nose and chin quivering so that the points of each almost touched. “Not good enough, Clifton; not good enough.” Harry Clifton had never supposed it would be. He expected Six and he wished the headmaster would just get on with it. The school day was at an end and he was anxious to be away home. He had a date to meet the boys at The Three Fishers that evening and there was every chance to meet girls of a certain character.

The headmaster jawed on and on. Smoking. Smoking cigarettes, surely the biggest crime imaginable at a school. Why, the headmaster had only last week delivered another of his edicts. He cared little about the harmful effects of tobacco to one’s health. It is unlikely that he had ever read about the causes of cancer. Cigarettes were banned because he said so. It was an order. Orders were given by those on high and obeyed (unquestioned) by those below. The hierarchy of a school was beyond question. The headmaster’s word was law and if that law was broken there could be only one outcome. The punishment must fit the crime. If orders were not obeyed society would crumble; the country would go to the dogs. Anarchy would reign!

Harry Clifton had been smoking on and off since the age of eleven and by the age of eighteen had developed a ten cigarettes a day habit. No headmaster’s proclamation was going to alter that. The craving for nicotine far outweighed any danger of capture. It was just bad luck that Mr Hopkinson, the junior sports master, had carelessly left a gym sock behind after lessons that morning. Harry Clifton was caught cigarette in hand. Mr Hopkinson, whose contract of employment at the school had yet to be confirmed, was delighted at the opportunity to demonstrate his loyalty to the tradition of St FIGS.

The headmaster had finished his jawing. “Take off your blazer Clifton. Hang it there,” he curled his lips and cricked his neck in the general direction of the hat stand. Harry Clifton had not expected the palms of his hands to be sweating. He wiped them on his blazer and tackled the three buttons. As he lifted it onto the hat stand he observed the three whippy canes in close up. They really didn’t look so awesome. None was thicker than a pencil. Their dark yellow colouring made them look old and worn; they were warped through excessive use.

As he was doing this he was aware of noises behind him. Floorboards creaked; the headmaster was on the move. By the time Harry Clifton turned back to face into the study the Beak had moved an ancient, armless, straight-backed chair into the middle of the room. He sat down and wriggled his bony buttocks in an attempt to achieve comfort. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the worn rug close by himself. “Stand there boy,” he rasped. Harry Clifton stood for a moment enveloped in confusion. He had half-expected a chair to be placed in position, but then if the usual script was being played out he, Harry Clifton, would be bent across the thing; head low, bottom high, offering up his posterior to his tormentor’s cane.

But what was this? The headmaster glowered across the room. “Now!” he roared, since he was unable to ever speak with a natural voice. A bemused Harry Clifton shuffled forward until he stood a foot or two to the right of the headmaster. At this point, the Beak spread his legs offering the wretched sixth-former a bird’s-eye view of the Beak’s bony thighs and knees. Harry Clifton’s head swam with confusion, but things were about to get much worse.

The headmaster’s ugly, lined face looked up at the boy, his mouth cracked into a sneer, “Lower your trousers and bend over my knee,” he cackled. The sneer widened into a full-on smile, revealing a set of nicotine-stained teeth that many would describe as “tombstones.”

Harry Clifton’s own mouth gaped open. He uttered no words, for it was not his place to question his headmaster. His mouth opened and closed so he resembled a goldfish. This could not be happening. Trousers down. Bend over my knee. No, it should be, Bend over that chair. It’s six of the best for you m’lad. The world’s order was being turned upside down. What game did the headmaster think he was playing?

“I’m waiting,” the headmaster growled. “Bend over,” and he slapped the palm of his right hand against his knee in case there could be any doubt about his instruction. Harry Clifton knew his face had flushed bright red; sweat made the collar of his shirt stick to his neck. His palms were once again damp. What should he do? Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. The words pounded in his head. What should he do? What could he do?. A chap expected a caning at a time like this. Commit a felon, bend over, whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack. Stand up. Dismissed. All over. The punishment fits the crime. The world moves on.

But, Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. That was not cricket. That was a nursey spanking. Something a chap might have expected from Mother when aged six. What was the headmaster thinking?

A disinterested observer might say Harry Clifton should tell the headmaster all this. “I’ll take a caning Sir, even trousers down if you insist, but I’ll not be humiliated by going over your knee.” But could Harry Clifton, or indeed any schoolboy faced with a similar predicament, say this? Harry Clifton was a bright boy and he weighed up the consequences of disobedience in seconds. The headmaster had instructed him to take a punishment and no matter how bizarre that might be he had no choice – absolutely no choice – but to obey.

Failure to comply would lead to suspension, or possible expulsion from the school. He would not be allowed to take his exams. He hoped to attend college, or even university, but without qualifications that would be impossible. No university meant no career. A life of drudgery as a clerk in some accountant’s office would be the best he could look forward to. He had to take the right decision.

Harry Clifton bit down hard on his bottom lip. He avoided looking at his tormentor as he unbuckled his belt. His pale-grey trousers were loose fitting and once he had unbuttoned the fly they slipped down over his thighs and knees and travelled at speed to rest in a puddle over his black lace-up shoes. He stood before his headmaster in gleaming white cotton Y-front underpants. His equally bright white shirt was long enough to cover most of his buttocks. Harry Clifton stood modestly with his hands clasped across his private parts.

He was an enthusiastic rugby player and quite used to undressing in company. Of course, after a match the whole team would romp naked in the showers and changing room. But standing here like this, trousers at his ankles in front of his headmaster, prior to going across the Beak’s knees for a little-boy’s spanking was beyond humiliating. How the sixth-former hated the vile, ugly bully.

“Bend over.” The command was terse. Harry Clifton peered down at the headmaster’s knees. They were thin and bony and encased in smart, striped trousers with a crease sharp enough to cut through cheese. Harry sucked on his bottom lip and pondered for a moment. How exactly was this done? Was he expected to leap over the Beak’s body, as if flying over a vaulting horse in the gym, and then land face down? Should he ease himself down gently by resting the palms of his hands on the headmaster’s thighs to steady himself as he spread his body forward?

“Pah!” the headmaster misunderstanding Harry Clifton’s hesitation for reluctance gripped the eighteen-year-old by the left wrist and tugged him forward with such ferocity that the boy tumbled forward. He stretched his arms in front of himself to avoid crashing and dug his palms into the ground. His nose was inches from the rug. Like this his head was low and his bottom was raised high over the headmaster’s thigh. Harry Clifton’s legs dangled in mid-air.

It took a second or two for him to recapture his breath. He was a trifle dizzy. Being prostrate across a man’s knees was an unusual posture and gave a boy a distorted view of the world. It had literally been turned upside down. How different it was to preparing to receive a caning. Then, a chap was required to “bend over” but whether he was across a chair or a desk or simply touching toes he always kept on his feet; he was vertical as it were, if he chose he could see what was going on around him. There was little disorientation.

Going over-the-knee was altogether different. Harry Clifton could see nothing but the old rug beneath his face; bent at this angle it was nearby impossible for him to turn his head. He was extremely vulnerable. He could see little but his other senses were unimpaired. His crotch ached as the weight of his body pressed against the headmaster’s thighs. He heard the Beak wheezing and felt the Old Man’s rough hand grip the tail of his shirt and tug it half way up his back. Then, a hand gently caressed the seat of his underpants as it smoothed away creases, even though the Y-fronts already fitted snugly. The hand patted and preened. Then it tapped gently across the fleshiest part of the left cheek.

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Suddenly. Spank! The hand swiped into the left buttock and then the right. Then it went high; then low. The headmaster smacked his rough hand with speed and force across Harry Clifton’s upturned buttocks. The boy stared down at the rug, his bemusement growing. He felt the hand strike his bottom again and again and again. The sound of hand hitting hard flesh resounded around the hot, airless study. It sounded like machinegun fire. The headmaster put all his beef into the spanking, delivering maybe eighty slaps in the first minute – and there were many more minutes to follow.

Harry Clifton lay face-down, head low, bottom high and let his headmaster get on with it. For he had quickly realised that a hand spanking did not hurt – even when delivered with vigour across the set of his tight, cotton underpants. Of course, he felt something. A tingling sensation. A slight warming of the flesh. But pain? No. A properly delivered six-of-the-best with any one of the three whippy, rattan canes that were at that moment still dangling from the hat stand could have had him howling. His bottom would feel like it had been beaten to become twice its natural size. Dark, vicious welts would throb beneath his underpants (even if he were allowed to keep his trousers up). The marks and associated bruises would last for days. He would display them proudly to the rugby boys in the showers.

But this? This over-the-knee spanking. Nothing. “My,” Harry Clifton pondered silently to himself, “I bet his hand is hurting more than my bum.” He almost smiled at the thought.

So, it went on. The headmaster spanked Harry Clifton on the seat of his underpants and the boy had to submissively allow him to do so. The headmaster was in control. There was peace in the nation. The Pound was sound. God was in his Heaven.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Penalty for ‘Attitude’

new 5

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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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Porterhouse at St. Tom’s

new 5

z used study (21)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I continued banging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Smoking on the bus

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I don’t often travel on the bus in the afternoon, but this day I had to leave work early for an urgent dental appointment. How is it that one small tooth can cause a grown man so much pain?

The bus was crowded – the schools had just let out – and I was obliged to take my throbbing jaw up to the top deck. The bus jolted throwing me along the gangway. I kept my balance, if not my dignity, and slumped into an empty seat. I rubbed my cheek hoping that by some miracle the ache would go away.

My head was pounding and my general mood wasn’t helped by the raucous noise echoing across the top deck. I must have been the only ‘civilian’ passenger among a sea of schoolboys. They wore green-and-gold blazers so I knew they must be from some posh school. The local grammar perhaps. Suddenly, from somewhere close behind me I smelt a familiar aroma. Someone was puffing a cigarette and the smoke was billowing across my face. Greatly irritated, I turned, intending to have an argument.

My mouth opened, but my aching jaw dropped. Sitting behind me was a schoolboy and between his fingers he held a lighted cigarette. His hand was held high and it seemed to me that he was waving it round for all to see. He showed little inclination to actually put it between his lips and suck. At first he didn’t notice me. That gave me time to notice the small badge pinned to the lapel of his blazer: Prefect. My head buzzed. A senior boy, a prefect no less. Smoking in public. On the bus. In his school uniform. In front of so many junior boys.

Suddenly, he noticed I had turned in my seat to face him. He didn’t speak at first, but the look of distain on his face spoke volumes. “Who do you think you’re looking at?” it said. I answered his unspoken question. “You shouldn’t be smoking,” I said. He glared at me in silence and made me continue, “You’re too young.” I trailed off. I couldn’t think what else to say.

What did I expect him to do? Apologise profusely? Stub out the cigarette? Promise never to smoke again? He did none of these things. His stare of contempt sent a shiver through my body. “I am eighteen,” he said haughtily. “I am old enough to smoke.” Then with great emphasis, he continued. “It. Is. Not. Against. The. Law.”

I am not a man who welcomes confrontation. The boy’s arrogant smirk unnerved me. I had wanted to say something like, “No, but it is against the rules of your school,” but I was too timid. The boy looked closely at the cigarette in his hands and slowly placed it between his lips. He drew smoke into his mouth, held it there for a moment and then quite deliberately exhaled it so that it blew across my face.

I told myself later that if the bus had not at that moment reached my stop I should have remonstrated with him. As it was I had to leave our skirmish unfinished. I am certain the boy smirked openly and encouraged his pals to do likewise as I bounced down the aisle towards the stairs. The meeting with the conceited schoolboy did nothing to calm me. I found it hard to contain the humiliation I felt and the raging pain in my mouth. By the time I presented myself to the dentist’s receptionist I had determined I would track down the boy’s school and report the incident to his headmaster.

Yes, I congratulated myself. I would not be intimidated by some snotty eighteen-year-old schoolboy. My mood had improved considerably by the time the dentist placed a mask over my mouth and asked me to count down from ten and I drifted off.

The next thing I remember was pacing an enormous room. A huge desk stood in the middle and there was a large armchair off to its right. The room was surrounded by book-lined shelves. An unlit fireplace dominated one wall. I was wearing a suit and over it hung a heavy black academic gown. On my head, slipping a little, I sported a mortar-board cap with its tassel dangling against my neck. In my hands I flexed a stout, yellow-coloured, rattan cane. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil, yet also as light as a feather. At one end was a curved handle. The cane had notches along its length and the tip – the business end if you will – was frayed. This little beauty had seen some action in its time.

I swished the cane through the air. Butler, the arrogant boy from the bus, stood before me, hands clasped firmly behind his back. His head was bowed contritely. “An absolute disgrace, Butler,” I intoned. “You have let the school down. I won’t have it Butler. I simply won’t have it.” Butler’s neck reddened, but his face remained deathly pale. “To begin with, you will hand over your prefect’s badge. You are not fit for high office in this school.”

Butler said nothing. His forehead glistened with perspiration. Not daring to look at me, he fumbled with the pin of the badge and unclasped it from his blazer. “Put it there. On the desk,” I growled. Sorrowfully, Butler did as instructed. “Now, remove your blazer.” Butler unbuttoned the front and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. “Place it on my desk.” He did this, all the time ensuring that I could not see his face. “Right,” I swished the cane through the air one more time. “Let’s proceed shall we.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of my intent. “Stand by that chair.” I pointed the cane at the armchair in case there was any doubt. The whippy rattan cane wobbled violently as I did this. Butler, his head still bowed, shuffled the four or five paces necessary to cross the study. He stopped some distance from the chair. “Stand behind the chair,” I stressed the word, as if talking to a boy of low intelligence. He shuffled some more and stood feet slightly apart. “Pah!” I ejaculated. “Closer boy. Closer.” I could not be sure if Butler was an idiot or if he was deliberately trying to be difficult. He took a step closer to the chair.

Butler was eighteen years old and on the cusp of manhood. He stood about an inch taller than myself but he was much thinner and lighter. He wore a regulation white, long-sleeved shirt and pale-grey trousers. They were a big snug across the backside and fell to an inch above his shoes. He was clearly a growing lad and I supposed his mother had decided it wasn’t worth the expense of buying him new trousers so close to the end of his school career.

“Right Butler,” I spoke slowly and clearly. I do not believe in histrionics. I am the headmaster and he is the schoolboy. I give him orders and he obeys them. That is the nature of the universe. “Lower your trousers, Butler,” I instructed. A slight shudder of his shoulders informed me that Butler had not anticipated such a development. Clearly, he expected to be beaten. That had been clear from the moment he received the summons to attend at my study. Butler was a senior boy – a prefect no less – and his crime had been so public that nothing but the most exemplary punishment would suffice.

z used cane armchair white pants CP-L (6)

I flexed the cane between my hands as I watched Butler unbuckle his belt, pop the buttons of his fly and encourage the trousers to slip down his thighs, over his knees and land at his feet. A moustache of perspiration now glowed over his top lip. His hands shook slightly as he straightened up. Once again, he clasped them behind his back. I wobbled the cane and touched the tip against the apex of the armchair. “Bend over Butler,” I intoned. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, then opened them. He sucked in a deep breath and rubbed the palms of his hands together. He was obviously preparing himself for the ordeal to come. Once prepared, he leaned forward and in a very athletic movement he was over the back of the armchair. He stretched his arms out front and gripped the furthest edge of the seat cushion. His stomach cleared the chair by an inch or two.

I flexed the cane and moved so I stood slightly to Butler’s left. “Head low. Bottom high. Legs further apart.” Butler wriggled his position until I was satisfied. Now, his stomach rested on the chair and he had to reach almost on tiptoe so that his face was so close to the cushion that he could probably smell the dust. When Butler was standing his bottom was a little flabby, but the flesh tightened when he was prostrated across the chair. It was round and hard. I tapped my cane across the fleshiest part of his bottom. I wasn’t yet satisfied.

I tucked the cane under my arm and approached Butler. His white Y-front underpants hung loosely. His entire body tensed when I gripped the elasticated waistband. The stupid boy had supposed I was about to rip down his pants and thrash him on the bare. I had no such intention. At least not unless and until he was found smoking again. Instead, I pulled the underpants tight so that all creases were smoothed out of the cotton material. The Y-fronts now fitted like a second skin and dug a little way up the crack that separated the buttocks. I cupped my right palm and gently caressed each cheek, ensuring that the last of the wrinkles was gone. I was now ready.

I slipped the cane back into my hand and took up position about three feet from Butler. I tapped the cane so that the tip bounced off the very centre of his right buttock. His bottom tensed. Bottoms always do under such circumstances, it is a natural reflex reaction. I withdrew the cane, raised it above my shoulder and through an arc returned it with some vigour so that it struck Butler across the centre of both cheeks. I was rewarded with a lovely line across the taut cotton pants and a very long and loud hissing sound escaping between the boy’s pursed lips. His bottom rose an inch or so from the chair but he gripped the seat cushion for dear life and stopped himself making further movement.

I hadn’t announced such, but there is an unspoken rule between headmaster and naughty boy that said boy should remain submissively in position and take his beating like a man. Anything else will be rewarded with extra stokes. I put the second stroke a little lower, into the more sensitive “sit-spot”. Butler hissed some more and stomped his feet up and down rather like a guard on sentry duty. His face was now as red as I supposed his backside to be at that moment.

I let the boy settle. A caning is more effective if you allow the initial shock of the stroke to sink into the boy’s bottom. The pain will them travel up and down his legs and if it has been severe enough also to other parts of the body. The initial agony will be intense. Very quickly that will settle into a roaring pain. That is the point when the next stroke should be delivered. In that way the pain of the punishment grows with each successive stroke.

I waited about twenty seconds and swiped in the third stroke. This one went higher on the crest of the mounds. Now there were three pulsating cuts running across his bottom in parallel lines. There would be a strip about two inches wide throbbing under his underpants. Butler’s head was bobbing up and down and his face was butting the cushion. His fingers continued to grip the cushion and even from some distance I could see his knuckles were white.

I flexed the cane once more, enjoying the power I had over the obnoxious boy. I would teach him a lesson. No more would he smoke in public. No more would he be rude to his elders and betters. I tapped the cane across the highest point of his stretched bottom and let fly. The crack of rattan against tight flesh resounded around the room. He yelped, just like a little whipped puppy. His back arched and he threw his head from left to right and then up and down. He reminded me of a neighing horse. His knees buckled and his bottom slipped off the top of the chair, but still he hadn’t jumped to his feet howling, clutching his posterior with both hands in a fruitless attempt to rub the pain away.

“Back in position boy. Bottom high. Head low. Legs apart,” I paced the study observing Butler as he struggled to present himself for the final two strokes. His face was scarlet, his hair was soaked with sweat. His eyes were hollow. I had no doubt he was in intense pain. I did not care. That was the point of the exercise. What was the point of a caning, if it did not hurt. Butler would never dare smoke again. He would never cheek fine upstanding members of the community.

He offered me his bottom. I adjusted my position slightly and laid the cane so it rested in a diagonal running from the bottom of the left cheek to the top of the right. Boys at the school knew this to be my signature punishment. It was what made a “headmaster’s caning” so feared. I whopped the cane across his backside with all my might. It was like I was beating a carpet. Of course, it struck across the four welts already throbbing across his bottom, reigniting the pain in them all and adding a new layer of agony.

I am not sure how in practical terms a “shriek” differs from a “yell” so I might not be able to adequately describe the racket Butler made at that point. I can attest that tears flooded down his face as if a dam had burst. Rasping guttural noises filled the study. Butler humped the back of the chair. His feet marched up and down. He did the head shaking thing again. But, through all of that, he continued to grip tightly the seat cushion. He did not stand up. I rather admired the boy’s fortitude.

I probably don’t have to tell you that for the final stroke I laid the cane on the opposite diagonal. By the time I had finished Butler had a perfect “X” marked across his buttocks. Snot poured from his nose and mixed with the tears. His entire body convulsed with sobs.

Slowly, I paced the study until I reached the far corner. There, I hung the cane on the umbrella stand. I turned and admired my handiwork. The boy was still bent across the chair, unable to stand until I gave permission. That was another of the unspoken rules. To do so would incur extra stokes and I had no doubt Butler was in no state to take those.

I waited a minute and then another, just watching the boy bellowing into the seat cushion. I was engulfed by a feeling of deep accomplishment. My heart was racing and my temples throbbed a little. I shook my head. Suddenly, from a long way away I heard a voice.

“Welcome back,” it was my dentist. He smiled, “So, how does that feel?”

The light in my eyes was strong. I blinked. “That feels very good indeed,” I told him, not thinking for a moment about the tooth he had just extracted.

Picture credit: CP Services, London

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Just an ordinary day

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z used drawing master smuggs hots (1)

“Right Brooking,” the headmaster flexed his whippy rattan cane then pointed to a spot in the centre of his study, “Bend over. You two,” he gestured to my pal Christianson and myself, “Stand there, by the wall.” He turned back to Brooking, “Right-over lad! Touch those toes.” Brooking stretched his finger further down his shins. “Keep those knees straight, boy,” the headmaster swiped his cane through the air, not trying to hide his impatience. I could see the strain in Brooking’s face; touching toes isn’t as easy as it sounds.

The headmaster stepped forward and stood behind my pal. I had the perfect view of Brooking’s backside, stretched against his pale-grey trousers. They were so tight I could just about make out the outline of his underpants. I was surprised to see he wore briefs; Boxer shorts were the fashion among we boys at the time.

The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm, it slipped down a little as he leaned forward and with both hands took hold of the tail of Brooking’s blazer. He pushed it a little way up his back so it was away from the target area. An inch or so of Brooking’s white shirt poked out from the waistband of his trousers and I saw a little flesh.

The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the centre of Brooking’s bum, but below the crest. It was quite a big bum, I suppose. Brooking was one of the tallest boys in our sixth-form; easily over six foot and although he was in no way fat (not like the obese schoolkids you see today) he was beefy. Meaty, you might say. The headmaster tapped the cane a couple of times and I saw Brooking close his eyes and screw up his face, ready for the ordeal. We were all eighteen years old and in our final year at school but a caning from the headmaster was still nothing to be sneezed at.

Satisfied that he had a good aim, the headmaster raised the cane and I saw it wobble as he took it above his shoulder and then return it with a terrific whoosh! so that it cracked hard into Brooking’s hard bottom. There was no time for the pain to register or for Brooking to react before the second swipe caught him on the undercurves of his bum. Six strokes swiped down rapidly. It was all over in about fifteen seconds.

“Stand up lad!. Stand over there. Christianson take his place.” Brooking stood gingerly, his face was scarlet. He always had a pale complexion and I suppose being made to bend over like that must have sent the blood rushing to his head. Apart from his colour he didn’t appear to be unduly concerned about his caning. I couldn’t be so sure about Christianson. He didn’t have Brooking’s stoicism, in fact he looked decidedly nervous as he settled himself in the middle of the study. It was a small room, dominated by a too-large desk (something to do with status I suppose) and there were two “easy” armchairs at the other end and a row of shelves. In the corner was a hat stand with no hats (they had gone out of fashion long before) but three canes dangled by their crook handles. They were of differing lengths and thicknesses but none of them was as dense or as stout as the one the headmaster had chosen to pepper our arses with. We were senior boys and so were getting the “senior” cane.

The headmaster aimed his cane across Christianson’s backside and fifteen seconds later he was back on his feet. His face was pale and his eyes were definitely moist, but I don’t think he was actually crying. Tears were not rolling down his cheeks. He rubbed his bottom ruefully as he took his place back by the wall. He went down in my estimation for that. Generations of schoolboys have abided by an unwritten law that says you never let the master know you are in pain. We would rib Christianson unmercifully later for not being able to “take it”.

It was now my turn. I strode to the spot and in one athletic movement I was peering down at the worn rug. Before I stretched my fingertips to brush the toecaps of my shoes I pushed by hands behind me and flicked the tail of my blazer away from my bum. It was my way of telling the headmaster, “Go on then. Do your worst. See if I care.” I returned my fingertips to the shoes took a deep breath and let him get on with it. Fifteen seconds later I was standing. My bum was burning but I wasn’t in any great agony.

The headmaster hadn’t flogged us, he had caned us. It was a schoolboy punishment. Six-of-the-best, we called it back in the day. The cane burns the moment it whacks down across your stretched backside and the way the headmaster laid on his canings so rapidly meant that burning sensation built up as each successive stoke hit you. So, by the time he’s through your bum is on fire, but that pain disappears pretty quickly. By the time the headmaster was ready to dismiss us from his study the pain had diminished to a throbbing and before too long was no more than a tingle. The bruising would fade over a day or two, before disappearing completely.

After we left the study we went down to the sixth-form bogs and compared our marks. That was another unwritten schoolboy law: you have to show your pals. Then, we went home and forgot about it. That happened more than forty years ago and I can’t remember what we had done to deserve that particular caning; there had been so many. It was that kind of school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, traditional discipline. I suppose it was just an ordinary day at that school.

….. Sorry. I lost my thread there…. Why am I telling you this? ……. Excuse, me I must go mix myself another gin-and-tonic.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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

 

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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Double trouble – his first time

Jackson

The unexpected phone call

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com