Book. Six of the best school stories

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Six of the best school stories

In this free-to-download book of stories we venture behind the walls of the school. The swish of the rattan and the crack of the paddle resound. Pyjama bottoms are lowered. Men of all ages present their bottoms for chastisement. A prefect shows a new boy at school who is boss and we get an insight into the life of the author Charles Hamilton II. But which of the stories is inspired by a real incident in his life? You work it out.

This book runs for more than 17,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

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Picture credit: Unknown

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Book. Troublesome Teens

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Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

 

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

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Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

The New Senior Prefect

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Ralph could not take it in at all. Allworth was not returning to Rossiter School. That was bad enough but it meant the office of Senior Prefect would fall on him. Senior Prefect! No one who knew him, and certainly none of his class-mates, would deny that he had fairly earned the position. His school record was blameless. He was thoroughly popular and yet he had never sought popularity by any tricky method. But he dreaded the inevitable and the very thought of it kept him awake at night.

Why was the position, so coveted by many boys and so full of honour, so distasteful to him? As he peered through the study window to the open field beyond the problem solved itself. To be Senior Prefect meant responsibility and authority.  He disliked the one and hated the exercise of the other. Yet he knew he would not shirk the former, nor would he, should the occasion arise, hesitate to assert the later.

That the occasion would arise he was sure. There was at Rossiter a certain number he mentally characterised as “slackers and rotters.” He could deal with them without compunction. They and their misdeeds did not cause anxiety. It was another set: real jolly fellows, fearless, upright, manly, yet so full of fun and mischief that they acted as if they were utterly irresponsible and were always in hot water.

There was Alec Elmslie, a fellow sixth-former; a senior boy. Everybody liked him and all knew that nothing mean or paltry could be laid at his door. Yet Ralph felt that Elmslie would constitute one of his greatest difficulties. As his mind reverted to some of the incidents in the past year he smiled, despite himself.

He shrewdly guessed who it was that had brought the jar of sulphuric acid into  the big school, and then emptied it into a packet of permanganate, with the result that suddenly all the fellows were seized with a fit of coughing. He knew also who was at the bottom of so much noise and rowdyism in Holden House.

What a nuisance it was! But Ralph was determined not to shirk his duty.

What was it his housemaster had told him, “When a thing has to be done, it has to be done, and it only remains to do it at once with a stout heart and a stiff upper lip.”

It was not long before matters came to a crisis. One evening prep. was in full swing, when the silence was broken by a regular fusillade. “Squibs,” thought Ralph and opened his door. Most of the other study doors were open and boys – some of them white with fear – were asking, “What is it?” It proved to be a basin from which squibs were going off right and left.

“Go into your rooms all of you,” cried Ralph and he waited to see that his command was obeyed.

When the explosions ceased, Ralph began investigating. It was perfectly plain. A basin had been partly filled with sugar, and into this a number of squibs had been placed; then some sulphuric acid had been poured into the basin, and as the mixture flamed the squibs had caught and exploded. The wall near the basin was badly scorched.

Ralph was determined to get to the bottom of the matter and to make the culprit sorry for his joke. Crossing the field and the quad he went in search of Dr. Ritson, the science master. “Yes,” Dr. Ritson smiled broadly, “I was rather surprised at the sudden interest Elmslie showed in his science studies. He did ask my leave to take a phial with him, as he wanted to try one or two experiments about which he had read.”

Satisfied, so far, Ralph went in search of the sugar. Jenkins, the custodian of the tuck shop, scratched his head a great deal and said. “Well, a great many boys buy sugar.”

“Pah!” Ralph ejaculated. “Tell me Jenkins, was Elmslie one of these fellows?”

Jenkins scratched some more, “Indeed he was young, sir, indeed he was.” Ralph sped towards Elmslie’s study. He knocked at the door and found his fellow sixth-former seemingly hard at work.

“I want to know was it you who was responsible for this squib business?”

There was a code of honour at Rossiter. When a chap had been caught bang-to-rights, he must cough. “It was I,” Elmslie smirked, enormously proud of his little wheeze and satisfied there was nothing the Senior Prefect would do about it.

“Very well,” Ralph’s heart sped, his mouth dried, “you are to come to my study at nine tomorrow. Bates and Carson will be there.”

Next morning Elmslie kept his appointment. Ralph paced the study, palms sweating. “Elmslie, this kind of thing has gone too far, and we are determined to stop it. You have played the fool and given us trouble enough already. You are not one of the juniors, and therefore we are bound to take a serious view of the case. Have you seen the damage done to the wall?”

The eighteen-year-old eyed the Senior Prefect arrogantly, “Yes, I did not think of that. I’m sorry for it.”

“Well, being sorry won’t mend matters,” said Carson. “You’ve been the leader in all the rotting and ragging of the term.”

“What else have you got against me?”

“Look here, Elmslie,” Ralph said, “We wish you would stop this fooling. You are not the type of fellow to lead all the rotters in the House.”

Elmslie sneered, “May I suggest that you stop preaching and come to business?”

“Very well, if that’s your tone, we will. You agree?” And the other two prefects nodded assent.

Ralph took the five steps necessary to reach a cupboard on the far wall of the study. Ralph’s back obscured Elmslie’s view as he opened a drawer and reached inside but the rotter could hear an unmistakable sound. The rattling of canes. Ralph withdrew from the cupboard and studied the whippy rattan in his hands as if he had not seen it before. It was a dark yellow colour and a little over three feet in length. At one end was a crook handle. He flexed it thoughtfully. It was as thick as a pencil but it was very whippy. He swiped it through the air. It made a terrific swishing noise as it flew.

“Bags down. Bend over that chair,” Ralph pointed the cane at an overstuffed armchair with a low back.

Astonishment was too mild a word to describe Elmslie’s feelings. “I’m hanged if I do. You can’t swish a member of the Sixth.”

“Can’t I? That’s strange, for I’m going to do it. If you were a junior I’d let you off, but you’ve led all the other less decent fellows in the House to a point little short of rebellion. We’re going to keep up the reputation of Holden’s, and to make it an orderly house. We’re not going to send you to the Headmaster, because we know, and so do you, that he will sack you. Now, will you bend, or must Bates and Carson persuade you?”

The embarrassment was too great, Elmslie was being instructed to offer up his backside to Ralph, his contemporary. He was no aging schoolmaster, nor was he even an older boy. Both were eighteen years old. But Ralph had the authority invested in him by the school. It was the power of a hierarchy. There was no argument. He had to submit.

With face set in stone, Elmslie approached the back of the dusty, aging armchair. This was not to be his first beating; he was that kind of schoolboy and Rossiter was that kind of school. Studiously ignoring the three prefects in the study with him, he unbuckled his belt and then dealt with the buttons of his bags. The weight of the heavy wool helped them slip down his thighs and over his knees until they landed in a heap at his shoes.

He took a deep breath, rubbed his palms together and fell forward. Elmslie was not a tall boy, his stomach rested over the apex of the chair and his legs were almost perfectly straight. He spread his feet a little to make himself comfortable (but he knew that what was soon to follow would be anything but).

Ralph laid his cane on his desk and approached the now prostrate rotter. He took hold of the fellow’s white shirt and roughly pushed it up Elmslie’s back so that the target area was clear. Then he took hold of the waistband of his cotton drawers and tugged so that they were tight against his stretched buttocks.

Elmslie closed his eyes so that he couldn’t see the Senior Prefect’s next move. But he heard a distinct rattle of cane against wooden desktop as Ralph picked it up. There were two seconds of silence before a swooshing noise confirmed Ralph was practising for his first shot. Then the rotter felt a thud as the cane was placed across the centre of both buttocks. Ralph “sawed” the rod for a few moments, finding his spot before, SWIPE! he whipped the cane down with considerable force.

Elmslie sucked in air, held it and  then allowed it to pass slowly through his lips. The noise sounded to Ralph like a steam train setting down. Somewhere to his left Bates hacked a dry couch. The second cut landed lower than the first, into the under-curve of the cheeks – the extremely sensitive “sit spot”. Elmslie’s legs buckled, he wrapped his left foot over his right, and gripped the arms of the chair as if his very life depended on it. Elmslie had taken many beatings in his career at Rossiter, but none had been laid on with such vigour. Where had Ralph learned to thrash an arse like this?

Number three fell higher. Elmslie bunched his fingers into fists and punched them into the chair’s seat cushion. “Sssssss!” air escaped through his lips. The pain was incredible. It started on the crown of his bum and travelled up and down his legs. It hurt like crazy, but thus far he was taking it like a man.

His resolve not to let Ralph know he had been hurt was broken by the fifth cut. The Senior Prefect made no concession to the scarcity of clothing on the boy’s behind. Each stroke had been a swipe. It was as if Ralph were beating a carpet. The once creamy-white cheeks had been slashed by five cuts of the cane. Distinct marks, visible through Elmslie’s stretched drawers, ran in almost perfect parallel from left to right. Two cuts were particularly deep and blood was beginning to weep.

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

Ralph was not one for self-reflection. He could not say why he now relished the task of disciplining others when once he had found the prospect so distasteful. The Senior Prefect was no longer a stranger to caning. He put much vim into the task and resented it when a boy did not holler. He especially wanted to impress his fellow prefects with his prowess.

Now, he laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Elmslie knew what was coming; his entire body tensed. He shut his teeth, anticipating the intense agony. SWIPE! Oh, Sweet Jesus, the cane landed atop of the five previous cuts and in so doing reignited the pain in all of them. His bum was truly aglow. Elmslie’s legs buckled, he stamped his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pinned his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

His eyes blazed, but so far tears did not flow. A fellow must not blub. It would be distressing enough that younger boys would know that he – a chap from the Sixth – had been caned, but for them to know he had cried would be too humiliating.

He rose unsteadily upon Ralph’s command. His buttocks were raw, but he knew that very soon the agony would subside into a throbbing pain and then into a warm glow, but he would sit in great discomfort for some time to come.

He pulled up his bags and waited while Ralph replaced the cane in the cupboard and then like the gentlemen that they were they shook hands before with precious little dignity intact, Elmslie left the study.

It says much for Elmslie that when later he talked it over with his pal Syson he concluded, “It’s beastly humiliating, but I jolly well deserved it. Ralph’s a beast, but no one can say he isn’t a just beast.”

 

With acknowledgment (and apologies?) to J Williams Butcher author of The Senior Prefect (Pub. Spring Books).

Picture credit: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Thieving cousins

Changed times 5. At home

Bend over my knee for a birching

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline

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The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

The Dean of Dorm Discipline regularly beats misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the my free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

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For more free-to-download books click here

 

Book. The St Francis Independent Grammar School stories

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In this free-of-charge book offering we revisit St Francis Independent Grammar School. St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. We meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

The book runs for more than 23,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

For more free-to-download books click here

Book. Paul and his Landlord

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Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

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

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here

I remember like it was yesterday

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It happened fifty years ago, but I remember like it was yesterday. If I take a moment I could probably give you the exact date. I know the exact time: 4 pm. It was early June 1967, classes at school had finished and we were about to take our A-level exams.

I had only been at the school since Christmas when I had moved to Brocklehurst because my father got a new job. It was hard for me, eighteen years old and without a friend in the world. The boys at school were a bit cliquey, they already had their friends and when I arrived as the new boy they didn’t need another one. They didn’t treat me badly, there was no bullying (well, not from the boys at least) they just ignored me.

I was a timid, shy lad totally lacking in self-confidence. If I had stood up for myself more it never would have happened. It was summer and since classes were over some of the boys would nip across to the Two Fishers pub, a notorious place where they never inquired about your age, at lunchtime. One afternoon two of the sixth-formers brought back bottles of Double Diamond. Double Diamond! I can still hear the jingle in my head A Double Diamond works wonders, works wonders, works wonders, a Double Diamond works wonders so drink one today! Jesus, whatever happened to Double Diamond? It went to same way as Watney’s Red Barrel, I suppose.

Maybe they were emboldened because it was nearly the end of their school career. Perhaps it was just that they had a drink too many at the pub, but they brazenly drank the beer in the common room. I know, because I sat, hidden behind a copy of Football Monthly, watching them. I was also there when Mr. Ash, the sixth-form master, came in and caught them.

I should rephrase that last sentence. He didn’t catch them; he caught us. Mr. Ash wasn’t one for niceties. He had no ambitions to be a great detective, nor for that matter to be an even-handed judge. What he saw were empty beer bottles and four sixth-formers. That was enough.

“Wait outside my study now. All of you.”

“B… b… Sir,” my protest was feeble. I wanted (I needed) to tell him I had not been involved. I was an innocent bystander. The other lads had guzzled the beer. Not one drop had passed my lips.

“Bangs,” he instructed a spotty, gangly youth. “Clear those bottles away. Don’t put them in the bin, I don’t want the cleaners to find them.” David Bangs sullenly hauled himself from the armchair where he had been slouching and swept the offending bottles up into his arms before disappearing through the door of the common room.

“Disgraceful behaviour,” Mr. Ash spoke as if talking to himself. “Unbelievable.” Then, gathering his black academic gown around his body, he intoned. “My study now. Go.”

My heart thumped. This did not look good. I had been at the school less than six months but I knew its reputation. It was traditional, not to say old fashioned. That meant traditional lessons, traditional games, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline.

My two sixth-form colleagues shuffled to the door. I sat transfixed. I hadn’t done anything, why should I be punished. I tried to form a sentence in my head. One that I could say to Mr. Ash that would explain the situation. One that would help him to see the error of his ways. One that would get me off the hook.

“I shall not tell you again Jeffries,” he growled at me. “Up. My study. Now. Go!.” Meekly and with my chin wobbling, I rose from my chair.

Mr. Ash’s room was in the passageway leading to the sixth-form common room. As soon as I exited I saw Vance Kearney and Danny McCarthy standing uncomfortably outside the study door. They broke off their whispers when they saw me coming. Vance was a tall, muscular eighteen-year-old. It was late afternoon by now and he needed a shave. His school blazer was too tight for his ever-growing body. Danny was shorter and in every way diminished by comparison with his partner in crime. His long, lank, greasy, black hair reached below his collar. That in itself would have been a beating offence for the younger boys at the school.

Vance looked across at me; even today I still feel my burning anger at his arrogance. He knew I was innocent. He could have intervened. He could have told Mr. Ash the truth. Instead, he leered, “It’ll be six.” To which his pal Danny just sniggered.

Six. The cane. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was that kind of school after all. I had never been caned before, nor slippered. My mum and dad had never raised a finger to me, not even when I was a little kid. Corporal punishment was unheard of at my last school. I hadn’t even seen a cane before, let alone felt one whacking my stretched bum.

I must have blushed; or paled or some such, because Danny and Vance both mocked me. “Six. Trousers down of course,” Vance said.

“Pants too, I shouldn’t wonder,” Danny agreed. I knew they were joking. How could a schoolmaster get away with caning a boy on his underpants? Or, God forbid! on the bare arse?

Danny and Vance suddenly straightened up. I hadn’t heard but they had seen Mr. Ash approaching down the passageway. The master was a man of few words. He mumbled some form of greeting and told Vance and Danny to face the wall. To me he said, “Jeffries, follow me.” Then, he brushed past, opened the door to his study and went inside. I’m not a very good writer so I can’t always find the right words, but if I said “my legs turned to jelly and I found I couldn’t walk” would you get the general idea?

“Come in Jeffries, don’t keep me waiting,” Mr. Ash called from inside the study. Somehow, I got my legs to work and I shuffled in. “Close the door. Were you born in a barn?” Mr. Ash snapped. I did so. “Stand there,” impatiently he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot in front of his desk. It was a large desk (in walnut, I think) dominating a room with wooden panels (oak, perhaps?). Along one wall were bookshelves. Another wall was dominated by an unlit fire. Across the way were two low-backed worn leather armchairs. I tried not to notice the coat stand in the corner. I stared at the red-and-silver-patterned rug beneath my feet. My hands were trembling so I clasped them behind my back. I must have looked a little like Prince Philip or one of the other Royals on a walkabout.

I don’t remember what Mr. Ash said to me. It’s not that I have forgotten after all these years, it’s because I was unable to hear him because of the deafening pounding noise in my ears caused by the blood rushing at breakneck speed through my arteries. My face must have been glowing red hot. I was sweating like a pig, even though I had left my fancy green-and-gold woollen blazer in the common room.

I don’t remember what he said but I recall everything about what happened next. Mr. Ash walked across his study to the coat stand. It was empty save for one thing. Hanging by its crooked handle was a swishy rattan school cane. Mr. Ash reached up toward it. He was a small man, I doubt he was more than five-six or seven. He gasped at the effort of movement. He turned to face me, cane in hand. He must have been in his sixties, his jowls, hooded eyes and slicked-back hair remind me of President Richard Nixon in his later days.

Mr. Ash wobbled the cane in front of me. His intentions were clear. My temples throbbed, I could not think clearly. I desperately needed him to understand. “I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me,” I bleated. My eyes dampened. I wasn’t yet crying. Tears would come soon enough.

“Stand behind that chair,” he pointed his cane at one of the armchairs. It was an ugly light brown, the colour of diarrhoea.

“No!!” I wailed. Mr. Ash stood, confused. My utterance wasn’t a cry of defiance, it was a piteous plea for mercy. “Please, no, please.”

The schoolmaster snarled, there really is no other description. He took the cane and flexed it between his hands. I had never seen a cane before. I was transfixed. It was more than three feet long and had a smoothed curved handle at one end. It was dark brown in colour and as thick as a ballpoint pen. He swiped the cane through the air, I felt a breeze as it travelled.

“Lower your trousers and bend over the back of the chair,” Mr. Ash spoke calmly. He was not one to engage in histrionics. He was the master; he was in charge, he expected to be obeyed. That was the point where I lost it completely. I was a shy boy, it was be humiliating enough to be forced to offer up my bottom to this horrible man for him to lash it with his whippy cane. But to do so with my trousers at my ankles and in my underwear was too much. I used to avoid any kind of sports because I couldn’t contemplate others seeing me like that.

Tears flowed down the valley between my nose and cheek, I gulped down air, desperately trying to fill my empty lungs. I tasted vomit at the back of my throat and sucked it back down.

Mr. Ash did not hide his impatience. “Trousers down, bend over.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the back of the chair. I made no attempt to comply, instead I pleaded for mercy. Fifty years after the event I still cringe with humiliation. Have you ever been in that position: at the mercy of someone without mercy?

“Pah!” he exclaimed and threw the cane onto his desk with such force it bounced three or four times before settling with a final rattle. Mr. Ash leaned into me, I could smell stale cigarette smoke on his clothes and what I am certain was whisky on his breath. He took hold of the belt of my trousers and deftly unbuckled it. I huffed with shame as he unzipped the front of my trousers and they slid slowly open. I was a growing boy and my white cotton underpants were too tight at the crotch. I was as thin as a rake and despite the hot summer we were enjoying my skin was pale and hairless.

I stood mortified while my pale-grey school trousers journeyed down my thighs to my knees. Not satisfied with the speed of travel, Mr. Ash took hold of the waistband with two hands and tugged them to my feet.

His face was puce; whether with rage or simply with the exertion of his actions, I cannot say. I must have been scarlet. Without a word, he grabbed my left shoulder and spun me round so that I faced the back of the chair. Then, he placed the palm of his hand on my shoulders and pushed me forward. I didn’t resist. I have no idea why not. Looking back I realise that I need not have gone through with it. I could have fled from the study. What could Mr. Ash have done to prevent me?

I suppose the consequence of fleeing would have been expulsion from school, examinations missed and no place at university. Mr. Ash held all the cards, there was no way I could have won. Had I been a stronger boy, like, I suppose Vance and Danny, I would have taken the thrashing stoically; lowered my trousers and offered up my arse to the cane. It would be over in twenty seconds. There would be pain; embarrassment certainly, but the world would move on.

I was not that kind of boy. Instead I now lay face down, nose in the dusty leather cushion, backside high, whimpering. I was bleating like a whipped puppy and the first stroke hadn’t yet landed. It was still some time to come. Mr. Ash had his preparations to make. We wore white cotton shirts in those days with long tails that covered the backside and the backs of the legs. Slowly, methodically, Mr. Ash took hold of my shirttail and folded it once, twice, three times until it rested neatly just below my shoulders. We also wore singlets (even in summer) and Mr. Ash simply pushed it up and away from the target area.

Mr. Ash would now have the sight of a snivelling eighteen-year-old prostrate across the leather armchair. I closed my eyes, shut my teeth and gripped the cushion for dear life. But, he was still not quite ready. I felt him take hold of the elasticated waist of my underpants. Danny’s words earlier, “Pants too, I shouldn’t wonder” flooded my mind. “No!!!” I yelled. Maybe I startled Mr. Ash, maybe he had intended to bare my buttocks and was deterred by my outcry. Probably not. In any case he didn’t pull down my pants; rather he tugged at the waist so that the already-taut cotton was tighter still. I felt cotton dig into my crack as if he were giving me a wedgie. The pants must have fitted my bum like a second skin, and to make sure there were no creases in the material, Mr. Ash rubbed the palm of his hand over my mounds, into the under-curves and over the backs of my naked thighs. I could have died of shame.

I heard the rattle of the cane as Mr. Ash retrieved it from his desktop. Then I felt it being pressed across the centre of my tight bottom. Then, he “sawed” it backwards and forwards. He was taking aim. Then, I felt the cane lift away. There was an almighty swish and the whippy rattan bit into and bounced off my bum. A second or two passed before I felt the agony. I had never felt such pain it was like he had pressed a white-hot wire into the flesh. This was no mere token caning, just a flick of the wrist; Mr. Ash was intent on hurting me.

The second swipe landed almost immediately. It struck just above the first and now I had a band of hurt about a half inch wide running across the centre of both cheeks. I howled, coughed, spluttered. My knees buckled and my feet stomped up and down on the wooden floor. There was nothing I could do, I was not in control of my body. It had taken on a life of its own; this was how it had decided to deal with the intense agony of a trousers-down caning.

I begged to be let off, protesting my innocence. Crack! Crack! Crack! Mr. Ash whipped me. My entire body was quaking; my backside quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

By now my pert backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. I was screaming, writhing and twisting.

Swipe! Number six sank deep so low it missed my underpants completely and left a dark red weal throbbing in the bare flesh on the back of my thighs. To this day I am convinced this was not a miss-hit. The vile bully had deliberately cut me. My shriek would have been heard by Vance and Denny outside and probably by anyone who happened to be walking through the quadrangle at the time.

The beating now over, I gradually ceased my screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness until, eventually, an eerie stillness enveloped the room. I had lost all sense of time. Perhaps I lay there for some minutes, maybe it was only seconds. Mr. Ash was probably studying his craftmanship, congratulating himself on a job well done.

I heard him quietly walk the length of the study and replace the cane on his coat stand. Now, the only noise in the room was my heavy breathing as I stayed slumped over the back of the chair.

“You may remove yourself,” Mr. Ash said pompously. I had stopped howling, but tears continued to flow and my top lip was covered in snot. My shoulders heaved and I had to put my hands on my knees while slowly I filled my lungs with air. “Get dressed, I haven’t got all day,” Mr. Ash couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.

I reached down for my trousers. My bum stung like a thousand wasps when I pulled them over my buttocks. My hands quivered as I tucked in my shirt and zipped my fly. I could hardly see the study door through my damp eyes. Mr. Ash opened it for me and I hobbled away. I don’t remember seeing Vance and Danny but I am sure they were there having witnessed the sound of my abject humiliation.

I walked around the streets for an hour before finally going home. I was too ashamed of what my parents would say if they found out. The agony had subsided by now but I was still sore when I sat down for supper that evening. If Mum and Dad noticed anything amiss they were kind enough not to comment.

I think about Mr. Ash and that day a lot. I have met lots of people over the years who were caned at school and many resent the experience for the rest of their lives. I am one of them. Mr. Ash must be in his grave by now. All I can say is I hope he had a long, lingering death.

 

 

Picture credit: Darrien

Other stories you might like

The vicar and the gay boys

The casting couch

Caning for England

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com