Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The boy in the front row

used drawing paddle hold (5)

I am quite alone. The door is locked from the outside, it will not be opened until morning. Soon the light will go out, plunging me into darkness. My eyes are awash, but tears are not yet falling. Someone seems to have put my temples in a vice.

Let me try to explain what is happening. I am (sorry, I was) the headmaster of C_______________ College, the most upscale school in this part of the world. You will have heard of it; old money and tradition.

I first saw John in my English class. He is eighteen years old and a new boy. That is not unusual. We often take brilliant young scholars for a year and prepare them for a top university. John aced every test there was in his state. He is destined for great things.

It happened in the third class of the semester. John always sits at the front of the room. He reads voraciously and answers my questions with a confidence belying his years. He has his hair cut military style but has an unusual habit of running his fingers across his scalp as if he had long, flowing locks. Perhaps his crew cut is recent; a new look to go with his new life at school.

He has the most piercing green eyes I have ever encountered. They sparkle when he thinks. They are set symmetrically either side of a button nose, which hovers above slightly crooked lips. When he smiles he exposes uneven teeth. They are not tombstones, but they reflect his family’s lower income status. John is most certainly a scholarship boy.

What is it about those damn eyes? They began to haunt me. Almost literally. I dreamed of the boy night after night. As I recall nothing much happened, but he was constantly in my thoughts, beguiling me. I have a drink problem – there I confess it – but it wasn’t the wine that drove me forward. Indeed, most unusually for me, I had not touched alcohol all day.

Don’t ask me why I did it, I still don’t know the answer to that. I could have understood it had I been rip-roaring drunk. I had asked my secretary Mrs. Crabbe to bring me Mr. McAlpine’s file – we are always so formal when referring to our students. I found the number of his room at the boys’ dormitory and set off just before lights out. My wife has already gone to her bed in her own room. When did we start sleeping apart? I can’t be certain; sometime after our only son went off to the war, I think.

It is quite a trek from the headmaster’s house, through the quadrangle, and across the playing fields to the outlying buildings that comprise the dormitories. Boys and girls are kept separate, of course. It is not usual for the headmaster to visit the boys’ dormitories, but not entirely unheard of. Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, seemed a little flustered when he saw me approaching the building, suspicious perhaps that I had come to spy on him. I don’t know what goes on in the boys’ dorms at night and it would probably be injudicious to inquire.

John’s room was on the third floor at the far end of a corridor. His door was ajar and he was alone. He lay on his bed reading a book. He wore only khaki shorts, adding to his general military appearance. He looked up from his book as if he had been expecting me.  He smiled, those eyes dancing. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

John is short for his age, I think. Maybe five-seven or so. His waist is narrow and his chest broad. I suspect he uses the gym. His torso is hairless, but a fine down covers his legs. He wriggled to a seating position and reached over and set his book down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the whisky bottle. My, how I wanted to grab it and glug down its contents. John saw that I had spied the bottle. His crooked lips parted.

It is against the rules for students to have alcohol. The penalty is strict: expulsion. John knew that, but I reminded him all the same.

He ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. I watched the muscles on his arms tense. He gazed at me. “Oh,” he said, “Couldn’t you just paddle me instead.” My jaw must have dropped, or at least I gaped disbelief.

“Paddle me.”

I cannot explain what happened next. That is, I can describe what happened, but I am still unsure why it happened. I am the headmaster of C_______________ College, I am fifty-five years old and have been around young men my whole life and have never given their bodies a passing consideration. I pull him toward me awkwardly, clumsily, unannounced. I am about to do something that will change my life forever. It will in all inevitability be my ruin. He is in my arms and I kiss him forcefully on the mouth.

But, John does not retreat from me; he kisses me back. Passionately. My hands run across his scalp, it feels like petting a hedgehog. Our teeth meet, tongues grope for each other. I run my hand over his warm, smooth naked flesh. My erection presses against the front of my underpants.

Then the lights go out and we plunge into darkness. The boys’ dorm can be like a prison. It is ten-thirty and all must be in bed. John gently pushes me away. I must leave. It would be unseemly for the headmaster to be caught in the dark in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old male student.

I fumble for the door and as I leave I whisper, “My study, after school tomorrow evening.” It is a rendezvous with the paddle.

We haven’t used corporal punishment at the college since my father was headmaster. He was a devotee of the paddle, but once he retired it fell into disuse. Times, I suppose, have changed. The boys in the athletics clubs continue to use it. I believe the rowers especially paddle each other’s rear ends when they lose a race, which, now I come to think of it, is very often.

We still have my father’s paddles in storage and it is no problem for me to blow the dust off one of them. I have a fretful day. The college governors are in town and I am forced to sit through interminable committee meetings when all I want to do was stroll through the campus in the hope of catching a glimpse of my beloved John.

At last, the afternoon draws to a close. Mrs. Crabbe is tidying her desk when he arrives. She passes me a quizzical look, when she announces Mr. McAlpine is here to see me. Mrs. Crabbe keeps my diary and nobody, not even the chairman of the governors himself, gets to see me without her say-so. Why do I feel like a naughty boy found out in some misdeed? I croak that she should leave; her services are no longer needed.

I wait until from my study window I see Mrs. Crabbe pass through the quadrangle and then I order John into my study. It is a huge room befitting a man of my status at the school. At one end is my desk and cupboards for my official paperwork. At the far end are leather armchairs, a small table and bookcases. I order John to stand close to a chair. He does so without a murmur.

He is dressed in a blue jacket and cream chinos which passes for the school uniform here. His white shirt is immaculate and a wine-coloured tie is tightly knotted at his neck. His face shines. I imagine he is having second thoughts. But, it is his idea to be here. He could face expulsion and disgrace. I am sure his impoverished parents are extremely proud of him. They would die of shame.

I had placed the paddle in a drawer. I didn’t want it to attract attention, not with Mrs. Crabbe snooping around. I remind John of why we are here. He chews his bottom lip. My heart skips a beat. I want to pull him towards me and put my tongue down his throat. Instead, calmly I open the drawer and pull out the paddle. John’s eyes widen.

And, so they might. It is an awesome specimen. It is more than two feet in length and maybe four wide. Large holes have been drilled into the blade to reduce wind resistance during the swing. John appears to be sweating. His eyes follow my movements when I hold the paddle by its handle and smack the blade into my left palm. I have never spanked a boy before, but I know that this wood is capable of inflicting great pain.

“Take off your jacket, put it on the table,” I have decided he should put himself across the back of one of the leather armchairs. It is low and his buttocks will be presented perfectly. He slips the coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly on the table. The tail of his shirt is poking out of his chinos. I see they fit him tightly at the waist and a fold of cotton covers his buttocks snugly, separating each cheek.

I tap the paddle against the back of the chair. “Bend over.” I say this calmly although my heart is racing and my palms sweat. He gazes at me with those intense green eyes. I flinch a little. Then he does something truly remarkable. He moves into position behind the chair, unfastens his trousers and sends them to his ankles. He is wearing sparkling white boxer shorts. His fingers pinch the cloth at his hips and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them south to meet his chinos. He swallows hard and bends over.

I have never seen a man’s bare arse so close. His cheeks are smooth and as bald as his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the leather chair. He keeps his head low and his legs apart. I feel that this is not the first time he has submitted himself for a spanking.

I had been dreaming of this moment all day. Except in my version I am paddling the seat of John’s chinos. That in itself is an erotic vision that has my cock tingling. The sight of the eighteen-year-old’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to John’s left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! I am please Mrs. Crabbe has departed for the day since surely she would have heard the noise and come running.

A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across John’s bottom. It looks sore, but John makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles. He feels that.

I put the next two swats in the underside of John’s cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs on to the chair as the pain mounts. I admire the aesthetic effect the paddle has on his once creamy white flesh. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No square inch of flesh remains untouched.

I appreciate the look of the teenager’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered, but (and I am very nervous to discover this) I also relish the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an additional two.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

John bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick and look away fearfully, catching John’s eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all,” he cries.

Then I have John’s entire shaft in my mouth and throat, squeezing my lips tightly around the base of the eighteen-year-old’s cock.

“Argh, that is so good.’’ John’s fingers dig deep into my scalp. The scratches will be sore for hours.

John gives a low groan, “I’m cumming,” he gasps. I don’t heed the warning. My head continues the  rhythmic up and down motion on John’s rock solid cock. It throbs and I feel spurt after spurt of sticky cum being pumped up his shaft into my hungry mouth.

John pulls away. I don’t see what happens next as I am lying on the floor in the foetal position choking. Should I spit or swallow? I have visions of Mrs. Crabbe’s disapproval as she inspects the stained carpet. That is a humiliation too far; I swallow.

When I look up John has his underwear and chinos back on. He picks up his jacket and without uttering a word, he leaves my study.

I do not see John for three days. The absence is agony. I crave for his body. I need to understand what is going on. He misses my next English class. Is he punishing me? I need to know.

In despair and with half a bottle of whisky inside me, once more I go to his dorm room. He is on the bed wearing the same shorts as before. He looks up from his book as I enter, his look of distain is profound. I mumble incoherently. I am more drunk than I realise. I think I say something about love, or at least lust.

He sneers. Yes, really sneers. He an eighteen-year-old student and me the headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools in the land. But, the humiliation has only just begun.

“It’s a list,” he says, trying to explain what is happening. “Things I want to do once,” he is still lying on the bed but rests on one arm. “Get sucked off by an old man.” His eyes shrug. That is all there is to it, they are saying.

Cry me a river. Tears course down my cheeks. Great sobs rage from my body. The arrogance of the beauty of youth. I stagger forward. I take him by surprise. I roll him so that he is now face down on the bed. He struggles, but even in my drunken stupor I am too strong for him. I dig my knee into his shoulders. He wriggles his hips and waist and flails his legs, but he is going nowhere. Not until I say so.

I tug at the waist of his khaki shorts. He resists but I inch them down over the mounds of his buttocks. His cheeks are bare. I see bruises from the paddling are still to heal completely. I wish I had a paddle. I don’t, so I smack the palm of my hand across his buttocks.

“Gerroff! Leave me alone!” he yells as I pound away at his backside. The flesh feels soft and warm. Soon my palm begins to tingle. It is probably hurting more than John’s rear end. I don’t care. I hate him so much. If I had a knife I would probably plunge it into his heart.

My cock is rock hard. My heart races. My temples throb. I loosen my trousers and find my dick. I climb on his back. John squeals with terror.

“Headmaster, headmaster!” Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, stands in the doorway, ashen-faced. I climb from the bed and without fastening my trousers, I push past him and stagger down the corridor, leaving John convulsing on the bed.

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Tyrant Headmaster 8. The student master

used drawing quelch (7)

For all the previous episodes of The Tyrant Teacher, click here

Steve May slowly closed the door to the study behind him.

He stood blinking the tears. Tears of humiliation; tears of pain. His backside throbbed like crazy. A minute or two earlier it had been intense agony, but it was easing a little. It would be several hours before the pain went completely.

How he hated that school. He would gladly see it burn to the ground. All of it and the schoolmasters with it.

Slowly, he eased his way down the passageway. Every step he took was agony as the elastic at the bottom of his underpants cut into his blistered bottom. He limped downstairs and through the lower school passageways, hands gingerly touching his buttocks. He couldn’t help it; he desperately wanted to rub his scorching bottom. His eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for the bogs and a cubicle in which to hide for a few minutes, until he’d regained some composure.

He cried a bit more; his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.

That night, alone in his horrible furnished room, Steve wept into his pillow and nursed his scarred buttocks. He still had weeks to go until he would be allowed to leave St Septimius. How would he survive?


Four weeks earlier


Steve May’s progress was painstaking. He crossed the ivy-covered quadrangle, passed the mullioned-windows of the library and entered the clock tower. He had never been in such a place before. What kind of school was this?

At a snail’s pace, he climbed the stairs in search of Mr Fortescue’s study. “Study:” even the words they used here intimidated him. Study: what was wrong with office? That was a perfectly good word. Steve was in search of Mr Fortescue, the headmaster, the man who was to be his mentor for the next eight weeks, while he undertook his teaching practice.

He was not looking forward to this. Now, he had to prove that he really had the makings of a schoolteacher. Eight weeks was all the time he had. If he failed that was the end for him. But success meant qualification and “Steve May” would become “Mr May,” a junior teacher.

The school porter had told him the study was on the first floor. He found that easily enough and was scrutinising the nameplates on the oak-panelled doors when he stopped in his tracks. Beyond the door of the study at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? His naturally pale face coloured up with embarrassment. He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Steve, emerged. Steve’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to drop his trousers and bend over a chair to allow Fortescue to swipe his cane across his stretched white underpants and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

The sense of intimidation Steve already felt increased as he formed a slack fist and ever so lightly tapped on the study door. He half hoped Dr Fortescue would not hear the knock so Steve could withdraw and leave the school forever. He would tell his tutors at the teacher training institution that nobody had been expecting him at the school.

“Come in.” Rats! He had heard. There was no going back now for Steve May. He had arrived at St. Septimius and he would have to survive all that the school threw at him in the next two months.

He turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he created between door and door jam.

Steve looked around the study. It was dominated by a huge desk, topped with green leather. Behind it was a window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit, fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there

Standing against the wall was a wooden chair with a high back over which, Steve would one day discover, boys had to drape themselves when being caned. Behind this was a comfortable seating area where presumably Dr Fortescue held informal meetings. Steve’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“You must be May.” Dr Fortescue gave him a frosty glare making Steve feel like a naughty twelve-year-old schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye, he could see that resentful schoolboy stretched across the desk, bottom high. When Fortescue beckoned him with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk Steve was certain he was in for similar treatment.

He shuffled forward, eyes lowered. Steve had been overwhelmed from the moment he walked through the gates of St. Septimius. He had never seen such a place. He had attended a modest inner-city secondary modern school made of breeze-blocks and glass, far removed from the ancient buildings at St. SIGS.

Dr Fortescue’s glare fixed on Steve who intuitively stared down at his mud splattered shoes, terrified he might make eye contact with the headmaster. He shuffled from one foot to another in embarrassment.

Dr Fortescue had a red face with a heavy frown on his brow and his thin lips were set tightly. None of the boys were sure of his age; he probably looked older than he actually was. He was an intimidating man, as strong as an ox.

Fortescue did not like what he saw. Who was this pale-skinned scrawny creature dressed in a cheap suit from the Co-op, who stared at the carpet too petrified to even look at him? Who on earth thought he could become a schoolmaster? If he wore one of St Septimius blue-and-white blazers he might be mistaken for a sixth-former. Heavens! Put him in short trousers and he could pass as fifteen.

“So, you are May.”

Steve blushed scarlet. Was he expected to answer? He wasn’t at all certain.

“Well, answer me boy!” Already Dr Fortescue was treating his new “colleague” as if he were a disobedient pupil.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

Fortescue’s already ruddy complexion turned puce with rage. That lower-class accent! Where was this urchin from? Some industrial town in the Midlands: Wolverhampton? Walsall? How could he be expected to teach English, when he couldn’t even speak the language correctly?

He turned his back on Steve and stared out of the window. What was the world coming to? He blamed the new Socialist government. They wanted to abolish schools like St Septimius. Jealousy. Class envy, that’s what it was. The school had been forced to take scholarship boys from the working classes and now it was expected to take on this wretch as a student master. What next: admit West Indians? Independent schools were supposed to “give something back,” the Socialist, no crypto-Communist, Minister of Education had said. “Give something back”: what the hell did that mean?

Fortescue stared through the window. A bell rang in the distance and hundreds of schoolboys in St Septimius colours emerged from classrooms. Bloody Socialists, he thought, they want everybody to be the same.

He turned to May. “Get out of my sight and never come back,” is what he wanted to say. But he had been given his instructions by the school governors. He knew he had to deal with this person and his strangled vowels.

So, instead of throwing the tyke out on his ear, he did the next best thing. He sent him over to see Carruthers, the most junior of the English masters. Let him wet nurse the baby and he sincerely hoped he never had the displeasure to encounter this wretch and his shiny suit ever again.


Steve had been at the school for more than two weeks and was on the edge of despair. Carruthers was scarcely older than Steve himself and had not taken well to his task as babysitter. It had brought out his worst bullying tendencies: Carruthers was on the lowest rung of school-mastering and resented it; now, in Steve he had someone who was even lower down the pecking order.

He took an instant dislike to Steve from the moment he opened his mouth. He didn’t care that the new man was a considerable expert on the Romantic poets and Shakespeare’s tragedies: all he heard were his Black Country “strangled vowels.”

Carruthers would have left Steve to fend for himself if he hadn’t been given instructions by Dr Fortescue to “look after” him. Carruthers knew from painful experience that he must obey his headmaster at all times. Failure would mean a second humiliating visit to Fortescue’s study and Carruthers intended to avoid that at all costs.

Steve was assigned Sixth Form English classes, on the expectation that boys were older and responsible and would not make trouble for him. Alas, for poor Steve, that wasn’t to be. The boys might only eighteen year olds, but they were already well versed in snobbery; they knew their own sense of superiority and Mr May was most assuredly not of their class.

The boys went through the formalities: they stood, as they would for any master, when he entered the schoolroom and they called him “Sir”, but they had no respect for him at all and rather resented that he had been foisted upon them.

They called him the Queen of the May behind his back and made assertions that he was “queer,” even though they didn’t quite know what that meant. A particularly obnoxious boy called Jenkins led the charge. Jenkins was one of those boys who thought he was the class clown, and makes himself popular by always making his fellows laugh, but is in fact a bully. He and another boy had made up a poem about Steve that concentrated on the master’s assumed sexual behaviour.

Steve knew none of this but he did know that he had no rapport with his pupils and every class with them had become an ordeal for him.

Things were about to get even more humiliating. Every time he entered the schoolroom he felt he had been transported back two or three decades. The schoolroom consisted of about twenty wooden desks connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

A master would stand at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books.

The boys hated Mr May and wanted to make as much trouble for him as possible. Jenkins had made a plan. Each boy would make a paper dart and at a given signal as Steve chalked on the board they would simultaneously bombard him. It worked perfectly – at first.

Each boy surreptitiously tore a page from his exercise book and whenever Mr May turned his back, they would stealthily fold their paper until they had fashioned a serviceable paper airplane.

Then as Mr May was chalking a particularly difficult explanation on the board, Jenkins silently gave the command and a veritable air force of paper flew at the trainee schoolmaster. Some darts hit him about the body (at least one caught him on the back of the neck) while others made crash landings all around his feet.

“What? What? What is going on?” Steve spluttered.

Then, the schoolroom door flew open and Dr Fortescue stormed in. What back luck for the boys that he had been passing the classroom at the very moment the air force took flight and he had seen enough to know the boys were attacking the schoolmaster.

He might not have liked nor respected May, but Dr Fortescue knew it was his own duty to protect him and the dignity of all the schoolmasters at St Septimius from the savagery of their pupils.

The boys stood to attention as Dr Fortescue strode into the room, his face was puce in colour and he was sweating profusely. He seemed to be losing a struggle to retain his temper. The boys were fortunate he was not carrying a cane at the time (he almost always did when he patrolled the school corridors) for he might just have thrashed every backside in the classroom.

“This is disgusting behaviour,” he thundered. The silence from the boys was deafening, hardly one of them dared to breathe. All Steve could hear was the thump, thump, thump of his own heart bursting to get out of his chest. He was so miserable; made so by the boys’ air attack on him and compounded by his headmaster witnessing his incompetence in the schoolroom. He was close to tears as Dr Fortescue glared around the room, catching the eye of every single boy as he roared his disapproval.

“You will all return here at four o’clock this afternoon for detention.” With that he turned on his heels and burst through the door into the corridor, leaving a classroom full of shocked sixth-formers and one deeply humiliated trainee schoolmaster.


Shortly after four o’clock the boys assembled in the schoolroom for their detention. Some might have felt resentful since all the form was being punished for the misbehaviour of a few boys, but they did not show it. Schoolboys have an acute sense of injustice, but on this day they had a sense of solidarity that would made a trade union leader envious. They were united in their disdain for Mr May; if he could keep control of a class they wouldn’t be here now.

Dr Fortescue entered; glared at the class and pronounced. “You will tear a page out of your exercise book and each boy will write a two-page letter of apology to Mr May. I will read your missives and if your apology is not to my satisfaction, I will apply my cane to the seat of your trousers.”

With that he strutted from the room, in search of tea.

The boys started on the task. Two pages? How was a fellow expected to make a letter of apology run for two pages? What was there to say except: “I’m sorry.”

Many of the boys stared into space, chewing the end of their pens, hoping for inspiration. Others whispered to their neighbours as if that might stimulate thought.

Then Jenkins, the class joker, piped up. “Dear Mr May. I am sorry that you are a lousy schoolmaster.”

He was encouraged by the laughter this received.

“I am sorry that you are a tyke, who was born in Wolverhampton,” this said in a mock Black Country accent. The boys were appreciating the joke.

“Dear Mr May, I am sorry you are a homo.” The class was silent. Faces reddened. Jenkins had not expected this. All the boys thought May was queer, that’s why they nicknamed him Queen of the May.

“Jenkins!” Dr Fortescue had returned to the schoolroom, a cup of tea in one hand and his favourite cane in the other.

“Stand up boy!” Fortescue’s face had turned the colour of red wine. Boys of Dr Fortescue’s acquaintance knew this was a dangerous sign. Jenkins stumbled to his feet. Just as blood was rushing to the headmaster’s face, it was draining from Jenkins.

“What is the meaning of this!” Fortescue thundered, but he clearly did not expect an answer.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

Every boy in the room knew what was to happen next. Dr Fortescue’s punishments were always given in front of the class; the unfortunate boy would be called out to the front and given a real whacking. Once it was over the boy would be sent hobbling to his seat, finding it extremely difficult to let go of his stinging cheeks. Without fail he would at least have moist eyes; most would be in tears, even openly crying as they tried to sit down. Dr Fortescue would stand in front of the class with a satisfied smirk on his face watching and still wielding the cane. He would place the weapon back on the desk, in plain view, as a warning to everyone else, should they misbehave.

“Right Jenkins! Bend over the front desk backside facing the class.”

Reluctantly, the eighteen-year-old walked to the desk and bent over and waited for Dr Fortescue to begin. He sensed his grey trousers being tightened as the headmaster ensured they would offer the least protection to his bottom as possible.

Jenkins was no longer the class clown, he was a fool bent over with a class of sixth-formers staring intently at his bottom. The classroom was tense as they all waited for the caning to begin. Jenkins felt the cane tapping his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he heard a swish and his bottom was on fire.

Before he could recover the second stroke had landed, this took his breath away and by the third it was all he could do not to yell as the agony was so intense.

The fourth landed right at the bottom of his cheeks and Jenkins gulped tears. As the final two strokes fell in the same area he could no longer keep quiet and screamed out in pain, broken and humiliated in front of his classmates.

Dr Fortescue liked to examine a boy immediately he had caned him and ordered Jenkins to rise from the desk at once. As tears streamed down the teenager’s face, Dr Fortescue laid into him verbally. “Boy, I have gone easy on you this time, if I catch you again abusing Mr May your trousers and underpants will come down and Six will become Twelve. Is that understood?”

It was, but Jenkins did not have sufficient control of himself to say so.

“Back to your desk and complete your letter of apology.”

Then turning back to the class, Dr Fortescue added, “I shall return in twenty minutes’ time and I expect each one of you to have completed the letter of apology. Any boy who has not done so will get the same as Jenkins.”

With that he left the classroom to the sound of his own footsteps. For the next twenty minutes the classroom was in silence except for the gentle sobbing of one eighteen-year-old boy.


He had only been at St Septimius a short time but nothing could surprise Steve about the school. Dr Fortescue, his headmaster, expected him to bend over and offer up his arse for his cane, just as if he were one of his fourth-form pupils.

To Dr Fortescue it seemed the most natural thing in the world; he was in charge and he would brook no nonsense from this trainee schoolmaster, who had failed in all his duties in the schoolroom. He was utterly incompetent and if he expected a good report for his training officer at the end of his placement he had better get his backside in the air fast.

Dr Fortescue didn’t say any of this out loud, of course, but Steve knew that was what he meant. The only chance he had (and it might only be a slim chance) of becoming a junior schoolmaster was to let this bullying headmaster have his way.

Dr Fortescue opened one of the desk drawers and picked out a small bunch of keys which he carried across to a tall cupboard on the far side of the room. The cupboard was like a wardrobe with a metal rail running from side to side and there was a black schoolmaster’s cloak and an overcoat hanging from it on coat hangers. Then to one side, Steve saw several canes also suspended from this metal rail. They seemed to vary in length by only a few inches and one or two were thicker than the others.

“Very well, go to the cupboard and choose a cane and bring it to me.”

Slowly, Steve went over to the cupboard and looked at the array of canes inside. He looked back at Dr Fortescue questioningly. “The one you think you deserve.” he repeated. Finally, Steve took a breath and chose the thickest one, which was second longest. He held it almost reverentially as he passed it to his master. It was heavier than he thought, but easy to hold. Despite its thickness, it was very pliable.

Fortescue moved a high-backed chair from the corner of the room and set it down in front of his desk.

“Stand there.” It was a clear command as Dr Fortescue pointed to a spot on the rug. Steve shuffled his feet, reluctant to move, but deep down he knew he had no choice. For the sake of his future he had to be completely subservient to Dr Fortescue and anything the headmaster demanded of him he had to deliver.

“Trousers and underpants down.” Another cool command, delivered as if the instruction was the most natural thing in the world: a twenty-two-year-old trainee school teacher required to strip half naked to allow a man more than twice his age to flog his buttocks with a whippy rod.

Hesitatingly, Steve started to undo the belt of his trousers and then his trouser buttons. He half pushed and half pulled his suit trousers down just below his bottom.

“That’s no good boy. I want them down round your ankles.”

Steve blushed and pushed his trousers right down. He then seemed to freeze.

“Now your underpants,” Dr Fortescue gently reminded him. “Right down please.”

Steve summoned up the courage, grasped the waistband of his pants and in one slow, but steady movement, drew them down to meet his trousers. He had a long-tailed shirt so that action did not reveal his buttocks, other than a brief glimpse of the very lowest part.

“Please pull your shirt up so that your bottom is fully exposed.”

Steve obeyed pulling his shirt up and gathering it at the front. His bottom was round and pert.

“Bend over the chair boy,” he ordered, rattling through his rules for caning. “Head right down, I want you tight, bottom out more, legs slightly apart, hold the chair seat tightly. And stay there. If you move out of position I shall give you extra strokes.”

Steve bent with his legs stretched out at forty-five degrees behind him. The seat of the chair was cold to his hands. He could feel the back of it sticking in to his stomach. He felt very frightened.  He could hear a cane being swished. Then footsteps moving towards him. He felt intense embarrassment. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

With a growl, Fortescue swiped the rod through the air and landed it with a heavy thwack across Steve’s bottom, pacing each stroke for maximum effect, giving him the full length of the cane and making sure that twelve strokes covered the whole of his bottom.

“Ow! Ow!” shrieked Steve, moving his bottom from side to side over the back of the chair as he tried to alleviate the sting, but the stick whipped and cracked to Dr Fortescue’s delight, dancing on his bare cheeks and painting pink stripes. His buttocks rocked from side to side as Steve wiggled his hips frantically, attempting to dissipate the pain.

The trainee teacher begged the headmaster for mercy as Dr Fortescue lashed his cane into his tight buttocks. His behind was throbbing with the pain of twelve strokes of the cane, but Fortescue wasn’t satisfied.

Suddenly, Fortescue stopped swiping his cane and began dementedly slapping his hard, rough hand into Steve’s welted buttocks. A rapid succession of sharp whacks covered almost every part of young Steve’s bare backside and upper thighs, leaving him panting noisily for breath and gulping back a flood of cries. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was heavy, fast, gasping. His face and neck were red and strained and his mouth agape.

Dr Fortescue’s breathing was heavy, excited, uncontrolled. Then he stopped spanking Steve’s red-raw buttocks.

Steve could not be sure his punishment was at an end as he assumed Dr Fortescue would instruct him to stand when he was finished. When no instruction came, the twenty-two-year-old drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly and tentatively raised his head up just ten or twelve inches.

When he was not stopped, he took another deep breath and stood half upright, his hands gripping the top of the chair. Finally, he stood up on tiptoe and began gently exploring the damage caused to his bottom, trying to disperse the sting. Several tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Dr Fortescue was motionless, Steve could not be sure, but the headmaster appeared to be in some kind of trance.

With a sharp intake of breath, Steve bent down and slowly hunted through the material that lay around his ankles as he sought the waistband of his pants. With a slight groan as he experienced once more the soreness of his bottom, he eased them up his legs. Equally as slowly he pulled up his trousers.

Dr Fortescue was battling to regain his composure, but failing. Steve started to run on the spot and jump up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV are always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. In Steve’s case, it didn’t seem to work.

Seemingly lacking the power of speech, Dr Fortescue pointed to the door and whispered, “You had better go.”

Picture credit: The Magnet


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Charles Hamilton the Second


The pillow fight

z used drawing pyjamas pillow fight Mag (1)

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sat slumped in the comfortable leather armchair in his study, trying to read the evening newspaper. It was deuced hard work. The noise coming from the senior boys’ dormitory on the landing above was disturbing his concentration.

Typical first night of term, the doctor mused. Let them get on with it. It was still early, they would eventually run out of steam and settle down to sleep.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood turned the pages of his newspaper. The American election was in full swing. Who really cared? he sighed.

Judging by the way the floorboards were shaking some kind of fight was in progress. With pillows, no doubt, the housemaster smiled. Boys will be boys. What tales they would have to tell, when they left the school. Thump! Something heavy crashing to the floor made the ceiling shake. Oh dear, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned. If it went on like this much longer, he would be forced to investigate.

A piercing screech rent the air. It sounded like a boy was being murdered. The housemaster folded his newspaper carefully and placed it on a nearby table. He listened intently. Silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed to be over.

Alas, no. Another equally spine-chilling shriek echoed across his study, followed by wild cheering. What on earth were they up to? Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood was very used to having boisterous schoolboys in the house, but this was too much.

Another scream. Foot stomping. The light fitting on the ceiling swayed. “Oh, this is really the limit,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned inwardly. “If they persisted in behaving like junior boys, they should not be surprised to be treated that way.”

He hauled himself from his chair and stretched. His academic gown hung from a nearby umbrella stand. Wearily, he climbed into it. He placed his mortar-board cap on his head, fixing it so the tassel fell in just the right place. He glanced in the mirror; he rather liked his look.

Then, he took four steps across the study and stopped in front of a tall, thin cupboard. The door was closed but not locked. It opened with a flick of the wrist. Inside were several whippy rattan canes, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Any one of them could in the right hands deliver a stinging beating, he thought, but these were senior boys, they deserved something special.

He reached in and took hold of a dark-yellow curved-handled cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed it between his hands. He had used this particular rod many times in the past. He could attest to its effectiveness, as could the dozens of boys he had thrashed in the past three months alone. The housemaster was well-known, and justifiably proud, of his reputation among the fellows for his expertise.

He swished the cane a few times, delighting in the swooshing sound it made as it travelled through the air. Satisfied with the rod’s competence to deliver, he tucked it under his arm and exited his study.

There was no great distance between the study and the senior boys’ dormitory. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood walked maybe ten yards down the passageway before ascending one flight of stairs to the landing above. The dormitory was almost exactly above the study. The housemaster made stately progress. He knew he should not be in a great hurry. There was a certain understanding in such matters. Boys who were ragging would have one of their own on sentry duty to call “cave” on the approach of a master. That would give the chaps a chance to affect an air of total innocence when the beak arrived.

But, there was no lookout and no abatement in the noise. Well, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood concluded, fingering the end of his cane, they only had themselves to blame. He waited outside the dormitory door, listening to the mayhem from within. He counted to ten in his head, gripped the handle and dramatically flew open the door.

There was chaos. A dozen senior boys, all dressed in identical red-and-white-striped pyjamas, attacked one another with pillows. There appeared to be no sides. It was a free-for-all. Everyone was fair game.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood made an imposing figure, framed in the doorway. He was about six-feet-four-inches tall and built like a rugby prop forward, although he had never played the game. He wrapped his gown around his body and glared into the room. He looked like a hawk about to take flight. Impressive indeed. But, not one boy present took notice of him, too intent were they on their own private battles.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sucked in a lung-full of air. “Boys!” he boomed. “Desist this instance.” A few paused their combat; many did not.

“I said, desist!” he roared.

Sheepishly, all in the room turned to face their housemaster. One or two hurriedly dropped pillows, staring at them as if they had never seen the things before, as they fell on beds.

“Such disgraceful behaviour,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood spoke in a natural voice. He had the complete attention of every boy in the room. “What were you thinking?” He turned to the boy nearest to him, “Carruthers?” and when he received no reply, he tried another senior, “Carstairs?”

The silence of the replies irritated him. “Carruthers, you are the dormitory monitor, explain to me what is going on.”

Carruthers blushed. Suddenly, he had an intense interest in the bare floorboards beneath his feet, but he did not reply. Carstairs could not stop looking at the fierce-looking cane tucked under the housemaster’s arm.

“Would some boy explain what is going on,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood’s beaky stare intimidated one boy after the other. “Dunno, Sir,” said one. “Sorry, Sir,”” another ventured.

“Sorry, yes you will be sorry,” the housemaster barked, “All of you.”

A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as slowly and deliberately Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He paused for dramatic effect, then flexed it between his hands until it made a perfect arc. Then, he swished it in the direction of the far wall. “Line up there all of you. Face me. Hands on head.”

Sorrowfully, the seniors shuffled across the dormitory. Not a sound could be heard, not even the thumping of the boys’ hearts. Corporal punishment was imminent. Soon, each stood as instructed, hands on head. Some tried to stand to attention as if on a military parade ground; most slouched, their backs arched and knees bent.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood glared at each boy in turn. He said nothing, his face said it all. He had practiced his intimating stare over many years. No boy dared meet his gaze. Some looked blankly into the distance, others at their bare feet. The housemaster swished his cane. All the boys would be beaten. Hard. They would expect, no demand, nothing less. Rules had been clearly expressed. Lights out and silence at nine-thirty. Just as clearly, rules had been disobeyed. There was a certain etiquette in such things. Matters had to take their course.

“I shall not tolerate such behaviour, and from senior men too,” he intoned. “You will each be beaten on the bared buttocks.” The housemaster delighted at his reception. Faces flushed as red as buttocks soon would be. He tapped the tip of his cane against a wrought-iron bedstead and pressed against it so his thick, dense cane curved.

“Step forward Carruthers. You are dormitory captain, it is your duty to maintain order,” he growled. “And discipline.” He rolled the word “discipline” around his mouth. The wretched senior before him would not – could not – look his master in the eye. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled.

“Carruthers, you will take Six; you other boys will get three,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed the cane once more. “Lower your pyjama bottoms and bend over the bed.” It was a clear command, softly spoken. It was an instruction from a housemaster, no boy at the school would dare disobey.

Carruthers stepped forward; his fingers fumbled at the drawstring of his pyjamas, but soon the red-and-white-striped bottoms slithered down his thighs before snagging at the knees. He parted them slightly and they continued the journey to his feet. The senior hesitated, unsure if he should step out of the trousers bunched at his feet and present himself totally naked from the waist down. When no further instruction was forthcoming from the housemaster, he elected to leave them in place and bend forward.

The bedstead was cold and hard. It stuck into his stomach and hurt. He would have much preferred if the housemaster had placed a pillow for him, but, he knew, the good doctor had no concern that the boys he was about to punish should be comfortable. That was hardly the point of the exercise.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood stretched forward and took the tail of the pyjama jacket and with some ceremony folded it once, and then twice, up Carruthers’ back, exposing several inches of flesh covered in dark brown hair. He stood back to take his aim. He pressed the cane into Carruthers’ naked buttocks. There was a lot of “give”. The housemaster beat many boys and most had well upholstered bottoms. He could not recall the last time he had been presented with a pair of taut, pert buttocks.

He “sawed” the cane across the centre of the senior’s backside, enjoying how it twitched with anticipation. The housemaster made two practice swipes, raised the cane high and swiped it with terrific force into the naked flesh. The buttocks wobbled with the impact, a dark pink line appeared, and Carruthers threw back his head and silently gulped in draughts of air.

Unseen by the housemaster other boys craned their necks forward, lest they should miss any of the excitement. One boy, who had never been beaten, nor witnessed such a thing, felt his cock stiffen. He wondered if he dared remove his hands from his head to cover the obvious erection that was growing.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood took his aim once more. Carruthers’ body stiffened. The stroke made him tingle with agony from head to foot. His eyes shone, and his face went white, but he uttered no cry. He had been thrashed before, often. He knew the form; no matter how much a master hurt you, you must never show it. Four more cuts hammered into his naked haunches, each as hard and stinging as the first, but not a sound escaped his lips. But for the drawn, strained look about his lips, and the blaze in his eyes, he might have been a statuesque bust when he rose and joined his fellows, hands on head.

“Carstairs, you’re next. Step forward boy.” Carstairs was a little taller than Carruthers, but no less padded. Nonchalantly, he let his pyjama bottoms fall. He stood facing his tormentor affording the housemaster a perfect view of his flaccid cock and ball sack. It was, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood observed silently, quiet the longest member he had seen in a considerable time.

Without fuss, Carstairs lifted his jacket to his chest exposing an almost hairless stomach. He paused to a silent count of three and satisfied that his fellow miscreants had admired his manhood, he dived across the bedstead. He spread his arms wide and opened his legs. His cock and balls dangled provocatively. But, the housemaster would not be distracted.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Three deep welts were already forming as Carstairs hobbled back in line. The pain was intense. It had only been three cuts, but the housemaster was a recognised expert with the cane. It had been “three” like the senior had seldom received before.

“Next boy,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slashed his cane through the air. He was in his stride now.

So, it was that twelve boys settled down to sleep, each nursing deep cuts on their backsides. No words were exchanged until First Bell next morning. Then, each would display his trophy stripes. By then, deep pink would be turning to mauve. They would change to many colours of the rainbow before finally disappearing several days later.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood returned to his study. He replaced the cane in the tall, thin cupboard and opened his cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses of gin. Soon, the study door burst open. His visitor owned the establishment; he was not one to knock on doors.

“How did it go?” he inquired eagerly before gulping his drink.

“Very well. Very well indeed. I think they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood nodded approvingly. “It should be one of our best weekends ever.”


Picture credit: The Magnet


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Charles Hamilton the Second



Remembering Professor Price

z used drawing cane master Hot (2a)

I first encountered Professor Price when he interviewed me to be his teaching assistant. He told me his methods and asked if I agreed with them, then he took my backside off with a thick whippy school cane. It was so humiliating and painful that I cried. I was twenty-two years old and held a first-class honours degree.

He was Head of the Chemistry Department at Brocklehurst University. The year was 1974. His methods were unusual even then. In those days, we didn’t have the mass higher education we have today and most of his students, and myself, had attended elite “public schools” or upscale grammars and were well acquainted with corporal punishment. But none of us expected to be subjected to the cane when we arrived at the university.

Prof. Price taught the boys separately from the girls. The “young ladies” as he liked to call them were left unscathed; not so, the “young gentlemen.” His regime was strict. He gave regular classroom tests and a student who scored eighty percent or fewer would be required to attend the professor’s study. Then he would be instructed to bend over the back of a low “comfy” chair and Prof. Price would whip his backside with six stingers.

A young man who submitted a poor laboratory report or essay would find himself in a similar position. I have no independent scientific evidence to support this (as science researchers would demand) but his method appeared to be effective. Students thus treated would in future spend less time in the bar and more in the lab and library. He achieved excellent examination results and many of his graduates went on to enjoy highly-lucrative careers in the scientific community.

I wonder what university lecturers today would make of this. If a student commits a crime of racial aggravation or sexual harassment, he (or she) might expect expulsion. There is no punishment at all available for more “everyday” misdemeanours. Therefore, indolence is rife and cheating and plagiarism abound. Of course, there will be no introduction of corporal punishment onto the campuses, but what if it was acceptable today to use Prof. Price’s whippy canes? How different might our students be?

Those readers who attended universities in the 1970s and earlier would know that Prof. Price’s methods were unusual, not to say damn-right strange. The use of corporal punishment on students was not officially sanctioned, not even at Brocklehurst. He did not make a big song-and-dance about his methods, but they could hardly be kept entirely secret. Today, such activities would be reported all over social media (secretly-taken photographs included), but back then there were few channels of communication open.

The professor’s family were wealthy benefactors to the university; witness the Price Building that housed many science laboratories. So, the Brocklehurst University authorities turned a blind eye to Prof. Price’s methods and in time were rewarded with a second building.

Readers might think that since this happened in the 1970s, Prof. Price was guilty of so-called “historic sexual abuse.” Not so. I am certain that no “sex” ever took place. It is true that the professor would occasionally require a repeat offender to lower his trousers and bend across the chair for nine, or even twelve, swipes across the seat of his underwear, but it never went further.

His students would sometimes mutter behind their hands that Prof. Price “enjoyed” caning them; meaning, I suppose, that he got some sexual thrill from it. How can we know? As far as I saw, he never exhibited such tendencies. He never spoke about the beatings he had delivered or those he intended to give. I am not aware that he kept a record of his canings in a punishment book, so there would be nothing concrete for him to drawl over later.

Prof. Price was a relatively young man and would probably have been in his forties during this time. He was married and had two daughters, whom he adored. A framed photograph of the three of them took pride of place on his desk.

Of course, I have clear memories of my own trips across Prof. Price’s chair. I began in his department as a teaching assistant and my main job was to be in the laboratories to help students in their lab work. I had been at the university for about four weeks when I was summoned to attend his study. Prof. Price told me that he had seen a deterioration in the grades of students in the department and he accused me of not giving sufficient assistance in lab work. For this, I was to be beaten.

His “study” was a contemporary office in a new building. The furniture was mostly made of some pine-effect material that was fashionable at the time. The room was dominated by a huge desk and several smaller tables. He kept his canes in a drawer of one of these. He had several, I heard them rattling round when he put his hand in the drawer to find the one he wanted to use to beat me.

I watched as impassively as it was possible to be. He had thrashed me at our first meeting and I suspected that might only have been a “warm-up” and that any future caning would be somewhat harsher. The situation I found myself in was absurd. I was a twenty-two-year-old adult about to be caned for alleged poor performance at work. Where else in the world could such a thing happen?

I watched the professor choose a dense dark-yellow cane and swish it through the air. It made a terrific Whoosh! As it went. It was thicker than the cane he had used at my interview, but had the traditional crook handle. Prof. Price flexed the cane between his hands; he seemed to have forgotten my existence.

I could have refused to be beaten. I could have complained to the university authorities, but I knew I would not do either. Prof. Price would have known this too. Jobs such as mine in universities were as rare as hens’ teeth and I would certainly lose my post if I complained. Prof. Price had the power: I had none.

At last, after all the flexing and some more swishing, he instructed me to take hold of one of the armchairs he used for visitors and to swing it around. Its back now faced the centre of the room. I was required to wear smart suits at work and the professor instructed me to remove the jacket and place it on his desk.

“Bend over,” he tapped his cane on the back of the garish green chair. I took a deep breath, rubbed my palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, I dived over. I was a little over five-eight in height and in those days I hardly weighed a thing. My waist was narrow, my stomach flat and you would hardly notice my buttocks under the cloth of my dark blue pinstriped trousers.

I felt my buttocks fill out the seat of my trousers as I stretched over the back of the chair. The professor would at least have something to aim at. I stared down at the seat cushion, even today, forty years later, I remember that the cushion was stained; probably by the bums of the sweaty students who sat in it for their tutorials.

More truthfully, I don’t remember the stain just from that one beating. During the next five years until I left the university I would regularly find myself in such a position.

Prof. Price had a routine when he beat me. After the flexing and the swishing and the “Bend over” instruction, he would order, “Head low, legs apart.” He would say this even on the occasions I had immediately presented myself in the required position.

Then, he would take hold of the tail of my shirt and pull it so that it was clear of the waistband of my trousers. Shirts in those days did not have long tails and there was no way it would afford me extra protection by covering my buttocks.

He was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he would say (as if such wasn’t blindingly obvious). “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point.”

I think that last sentence was meant to be humorous. Ironic, even. I can’t be sure, since at other times Prof. Price never revealed that he had the slightest sense of humour.

“Do not wriggle about too much and do not try to rise or in any other way obstruct me in my duty,” he continued. Then, after a pause for dramatic effect, he concluded, “Or you will receive extra strokes. Is that understood.”

The student showing the professor his backside was expected to reply with a resounding, “Yes, Sir!”

Prof. Price would then “saw” his cane across the middle of the bum and then whack it down with terrific force. At least, when he caned me it was always with maximum effort. It was like he was beating a carpet. The pain was intense. Every time he caned me. Apparently, some people say the more times a person is caned the easier it becomes to withstand the pain. I don’t know how many of those people were ever in Prof. Price’s study, but I’m here to tell you it isn’t true.

The first swipe caught me on the lower part of the buttock, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across my arse. My whole body shuddered and my backside bounced up and down. I had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at my bum and ran up and down my legs.

Prof. Price never hurried a beating. To me, it felt an age, but it was probably only fifteen or twenty seconds before the second cut scorched the top end of my globes. I shuddered some more and this time my mouth opened and closed, but I stifled the yelp my body wanted me to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Prof.  Price had an expert aim. I now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears prickled my eyes. I sniffed them back. I did not want to repeat the humiliation of my job interview when copious tears flooded down my face like a waterfall.

Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of my bum. The agony was intense. My legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. My hips swayed from side to side. This time I couldn’t stop the “Aaarrrh!” escaping my throat.

The fifth hurt just as badly. My temples pulsated almost as much as my throbbing bum. My left foot wrapped around my right ankle and my buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. I didn’t yell this time, instead I convulsed under a series of dry hacking coughs.

The bastard had a plan for the sixth stroke. I saw it coming before I felt it. He moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of my entire arse, then he lifted it away and brought it down with a magnificent crash so that it landed across five previous scars, igniting the agony in all of them. I screamed. I cannot deny it. I jumped up from the chair, but half way to my feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and I resumed my position. I didn’t want extra strokes. I was certain the professor would carry out his threat.

I lay, my arse on fire, sobbing into the seat cushion. My head ached and my throat was raw from yelling and coughing. The professor gave me a moment to try to calm myself and when it was clear I could not, he ordered me to, “Stand up.”

I crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled. I grabbed a nearby table to steady myself. In an upright position my buttocks pressed against my tightly-fitting underpants and I felt several welts had risen. Later, I would see some had bled. I needed to soak my pants with a wet face cloth to get them to unstick from the dried blood.

For now, in the professor’s study I was doubled up, gulping in lungs-full of air. The agony was easing quite quickly, but every square inch of my bum was sore. The pain would soon dissipate to a constant throbbing before becoming a warm glow. Within an hour, it would have gone for good, except for a strip on my lower buttock that would hurt whenever I sat down on a hard surface. It took several days for the cuts and bruises to go.

The professor dismissed me from the study and I hobbled to the dismal bed-sitting room that was my home then.

I obtained my Ph.D doctorate under Prof. Price’s supervision and then left Brocklehurst at the earliest opportunity to take a post in private industry. Prof. Price was killed in a car crash in 1982. None of his former students attended his memorial service.


Picture credit: The Hotspur


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Charles Hamilton the Second


The Chamber pot incident

The headmaster sat back in his plush leather chair contemplating the boy standing on the other side of his huge walnut desk.

Perry Dexter, aged eighteen, nearly six-feet tall, a senior sixth-former, captain of cricket, a prefect. And a thoroughly silly boy.

Dexter wore a white shirt, green-and-black striped tie and mid-grey short trousers. He had on leather sandals, but no socks. Eighteen years old and wearing short trousers. And they were real trousers. Properly tailored trousers that were short. Not the kind of shorts people wore to the beach. The headmaster knew that back in his homeland no self-respecting eighteen-year-old would wear short trousers to school. But here under the harsh African summer sun it made perfect sense. All the boys from the youngest to the most senior wore short trousers.

Dexter’s shorts were short and Dexter was tall, so they hardly covered much more than his buttocks and an inch or so of his thighs. The boy didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t the only pupil at the school dressed like that.

Dexter posed the headmaster a problem. He needed to be punished, there was no doubt about that. But, he was a senior sixth-former, eighteen years old, an adult. How did one punish somebody like that?

The stupid boy had climbed on the roof of the clock tower and then shimmied up its steeple and deposited a chamber pot on the very top. It was dangerous, the fool could have easily fallen and broken his neck. It was a terrible example to set the younger boys.

It had all been so public. Everybody knew what he had done. The headmaster could not ignore it. It could not be brushed under the carpet. So, how could the boy be punished? It had never been much of a problem in the past. Sixth-formers were by and large well behaved. They were left to their own devices. No master would interfere with their lives.

But now? The headmaster had contemplated expelling the boy, or at least suspending him for a term. But, examinations were looming. If the boy missed classes, he would certainly fail them. Then what? No place at university. No lucrative career. And all because of a childish prank.

No. The headmaster had decided. Dexter would not be suspended or expelled. That left only one recourse to action. If the boy behaved like a child, he should be punished like a child. No matter how disagreeable it might be, it had to be done.

The headmaster had finished jawing the boy. It was now time to take action. He hauled himself out from his chair and walked in front of his desk. Dexter’s eyes followed him intently. The headmaster took hold of a low-backed armchair and swivelled it until its back faced into the centre of the room.

Then, to dispel any doubts about his intentions, he strode to a tall thin cupboard in one corner of the study. He opened the door. Dexter averted his eyes. He knew what was kept inside. He could hear a distinct rattle as several whippy rattan canes rolled around as the headmaster searched for just the right weapon.

Dexter was a sixth-former. This was a unique situation. It deserved something special to meet the occasion. The headmaster withdrew a long, stout Malacca cane. He held it between his hands and studied it closely, as if seeing it for the very first time.

It truly was the first time Dexter had seen the beast. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a boy’s finger. It had notches every three or four inches along its length. That was what made the cane so awesome. It would bruise a boy’s backside worse than any other of the canes in the headmaster’s considerable collection. When administered with vigour across bared buttocks it would tear the flesh to ribbons.

The headmaster turned to face Dexter and swiped the monstrous cane through empty air. It made a terrific swish as it travelled.

The headmaster pointed with his cane. “Please stand behind that chair.” A look of bewilderment spread across Dexter’s face. It was a handsome face with dark piercing brown eyes and elegant full lips. He was blessed with a gorgeous smile and when he grinned his whole face lit up. But, he was not smiling now. The cane? He, a sixth-former was to be caned? Had a sixth-former ever been caned by the headmaster in the whole history of the school?

He stood rooted to the spot. Unsure what to do. The headmaster’s clear icy blue eyes fixed a penetrating gaze on the boy. He was unaccustomed to this. A boy always obeyed the headmaster’s command. Without question.

“Dexter!” The headmaster’s craggy face scowled. He swished the cane once more. “To the chair boy.”

Hesitantly, Dexter shuffled the three or four paces needed to reach the chair. He stood behind it as instructed. It was an ordinary “easy” chair, modern in design. The kind you might see in an office or a home. Dexter was a tall boy and the apex of the chair was several inches lower than his waist. It had foam cushions, one on the back and another on the seat, covered in a heavy coarse bottle-green material. Its arms and legs were made of a light wood.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Let’s have those trousers down, Dexter.”

The eighteen-year-old turned his head towards his tormentor and opened his mouth to voice a protest. He caught sight of the awesome cane now tucked under the headmaster’s right arm and shut up. He did not want to antagonise the man. Besides, Dexter knew the reality. The headmaster was in charge and he, Dexter, had no choice but to obey. That was just how it was. That was how the universe was organised. The boy submitted to the master’s command.

He drew in a deep breath. Matters had to take their course. A caning on the underpants. It couldn’t hurt that much, surely? His short trousers had a half-elasticated waistband so he needed no belt. He unclasped the metal fastener at the top of his zipper, unzipped and let the trousers slither over his buttocks and down his thighs where gravity took them to rest on top of his brown sandals.

His white Y-front underpants fitted a little too snugly. It was clear to any observer that Dexter was no longer a small boy; he was a fully-grown man.


The headmaster slid the cane from his arm into his hand and tapped its tip across the back of the chair. “Bend over the chair, Dexter. Bend over.”

The boy shuffled a few inches forward. Took a deep breath and laid himself across the chair.  He was so tall and the chair so small that his stomach cleared the top of the chair by several inches. He held tightly to the wooden arms.

The headmaster took up his position to the left and slightly behind the boy. He laid his cane across the middle of the boy’s underpants. But something was not quite right. No, the headmaster thought, this would not do.

“Lean further forward, Dexter. Take hold of the front of the seat cushion.”

The sixth-former manoeuvred himself forward. Now, his back was arched and his buttocks were presented more tightly. But the headmaster was still not satisfied. He took hold of the tail of the boy’s gleaming white shirt and gently folded it, once and then twice. Now, several inches of Dexter’s hairless back were displayed and the shirt was well away from the target area.

Next, the headmaster gripped the waistband of the Y-fronts. Dexter drew in breath sharply. “Dear God,” he thought, “the Beak’s pulling my pants down. He’s going to cane me on the bare.”

But he was not. Instead, the headmaster pulled the underpants tightly. It had the effect of lifting and separating each buttock. The boy’s crack showed as a deep ridge down the centre of the underpants. Now, they fitted like a second skin. They would afford him no protection. As far as pain was concerned, he might as well be presenting himself bare-arsed for his thrashing.

The headmaster had been a keen cricketer all his life and he swiped the first stroke into Dexter’s backside with the same ferocity he would use sending a ball to the boundary. The impact surprised the boy and he rocked backwards and forwards while simultaneously gripping the chair cushion for dear life and screwing up his eyes in a futile attempt to absorb the pain.

If the first stroke was a “four” to the boundary, the second was a “six.” The headmaster used an uppercut to enter the boy’s buttocks in the fleshy underside and tried to exit somewhere near the top of the globes. Dexter rose on his toes, hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes and gurned his face by closing his top lip over his lower.

The headmaster waited patiently for Dexter to settle. Already, he could see two clear lines running parallel across the boy’s tight white underpants. Beneath the cotton, there would be a strip of raw flesh at least an inch wide throbbing like crazy.

Dexter thumped the chair’s cushion with a clenched fist and howled when the third swipe struck him. It was low, right where the bum cheeks met the thigh. The cane had bypassed the underpants altogether and struck bare flesh. A vivid red mark instantly appeared. Sweat drenched the boy’s shirt. His heart was thumping like he had just won a one-hundred-yards race at an Olympic record. He wriggled his hips, pushed his bottom further out. Hopped on one foot, then the other.

“Steady boy. Steady.” It was a curt command and one that the headmaster expected to be obeyed. He did not take kindly to boys who did not accept a thrashing stoically.

Dexter summoned up all his powers of concentration. He would take this caning like a man. He simply would.

Number four landed higher, but with no less ferocity. The headmaster beat carpets with less force. Dexter smashed his head from side to side, as a horse might when avoiding being bridled. The pain which had started in every nerve end of his posterior now travelled up and down his legs. His knees buckled, the soles of his sandals slipped against the carpet beneath his feet.

The headmaster believed that a “headmaster’s caning” should be awesome. A boy would never wish to return to the headmaster’s study. It would be an experience he would not forget for the rest of his life.

He moved his position slightly and placed the cane across Dexter’s buttocks so that it lay diagonally from the bottom left corner to the top right. Then with a powerful forearm jab he brought it swishing down across the four cuts already aching across the boy’s bum. It brought each of them to life once more and added its own bite to his ferociously burning bottom.

Dexter gripped his head in his hands; his face contorted like a gargoyle. His hips swayed. His mouth opened and closed silently, like a goldfish.

The headmaster laid the cane for the final time across the boy’s buttocks. This time from bottom right to top left. Swipe! There was now a perfect “X” across Dexter’s rear end. He repeated his military dance, stamping his feet up and down. His buttocks sashayed. His back arched. He gulped in draughts of air. He couldn’t breathe, the furnish blazing across his buttocks had quite literally taken his breath away.

The headmaster paused, watching the boy carefully. Dexter’s bottom appeared swollen. There were clear cane marks across the seat of his underpants. It looked like welts had already risen. Yes, the headmaster told himself, it was a job well done.

“You may rise, Dexter,” it was a pompous, haughty command.

Slowly, the boy released his grip on the chair and straightened his back. His short trousers remained at his feet. Even without touching his behind, the boy knew it had the texture of leather. Never in his life had he experienced such agony before, not even when he was nine years old and fell off his bicycle and fractured his wrist.

His beautiful brown eyes shone. They were washed with tears, but he was not actually, technically, crying. He would be able to make that claim later when recounting his ordeal to the other chaps.

He bent down and retrieved his trousers. He hissed slightly as the pain reignited as he pulled them across his buttocks.

The headmaster completed an entry in the punishment book and passed it across his desk for the boy to sign. Dexter flashed him one of his most impish grins. He did not resent the beating he had just endured. He had been a damn fool, he knew that. The headmaster had no choice but to thrash him severely. It was what he deserved.

In any case, he thought, as he exited the study. He would be a hero twice over with his chums when they inspected his wounds. First, for climbing the clock tower and leaving the chamber pot and second for being the first sixth-former in history to take a headmaster’s whopping.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)



A version of this story from the housemaster’s point of view is here

James “Tommy” Tomkins stepped into his pyjama bottoms, pulled the drawstring tightly and then tied a double bow. With some resentment he leaned over the bed and picked up the striped jacket. He found the arm holes and climbed in. He was nearly ready.

What a swizz, he thought. Summoned to his housemaster’s study. Just before lights out. It would be a whopping for sure. And on the pyjama bottoms at that.

Tomkins was eighteen years old, a member of the upper-sixth. He thought he was an adult damn it. But, eighteen or not, he had broken the school rules and now he would pay the price. How had smoking cigarettes suddenly become a crime? Until the new headmaster arrived sixth-formers were left to themselves. They were expected to study hard and ensure that the younger boys kept in line; but they were pretty much left to their own devices.

Not anymore. Dr Tredlow the new headmaster was a man on a mission. Unluckily for the senior boys, his mission was to tame them. He was evangelical in his belief that sixth-formers were schoolboys just like anyone else. They were not adults; they were children. And they would be expected to obey the rules just like any junior boy.

So, out went drinking whisky. The poker games were abandoned. And any sixth-former caught smoking could expect to find himself over the housemaster’s desk with his bum pointing to the ceiling. That was exactly what had happened to Tomkins, three weeks previously. Six-of-the-best. In fact, six of the very best. His housemaster Mr Teddington was no slouch when he had a cane in his hand.

Tomkins had a problem and he wasn’t the only eighteen-year-old at the school who suffered. He had smoked so many cigarettes in the past years that he had become addicted to tobacco. He could not give it up. And, like all addicts he had become skilful at hiding it from those around him. But not skilful enough. Mr Heath, a junior maths master, had spied him in a nearby copse puffing away on a Woodbine. What Mr Heath was himself doing in the copse has gone unrecorded. But, the junior master, perhaps anxious to curry favour with his elders and betters, reported Tomkins to his housemaster.

Tomkins looked across the dormitory at his dressing-gown hanging on a hook. It was a warm evening; he would leave it where it was. Besides, he would only have to remove it once he was inside old Teddy’s study.

Still full of resentment, Tomkins left the dorm and made his way along the gloomy passageway to meet his maker. He paused at the heavy oak door, raised his fist and tapped lightly. There was a pause and then he heard the stout command of his housemaster, “Come.”

Tomkins was in no hurry. He knew he was due a beating. He turned the handle slowly and very reluctantly pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into the study.

Mr Teddington was sat in a luxurious leather chair, reading a newspaper with a pipe in his mouth. A fug of smoke surrounded him. Tomkins glared at the injustice. He intends to beat me for smoking, he thought, look at him puffing away. What an example he sets, the boy thought bitterly.

“Come in boy! Don’t dawdle! Close the door!” the housemaster snapped.

Tomkins closed the door as instructed and stood only a couple of paces inside the room, unsure what to do next.

The silence was deafening. Tomkins hopped from one bare foot to the other. “You wanted to see me sir.”

The housemaster peered at him over the top of his reading glasses, dripping distain. “I’m not yet ready for you! Face the wall and wait for me.”

Tomkins looked around the study unsure where he was meant to go. It was a large room; one side was dominated by an as-yet unlit open fireplace. Mahogany bookshelves behind glass doors ran the length of the room alongside it.

The other main wall had closed cupboards, for teaching materials and so-forth. One cupboard that was taller and narrower than the others contained implements of an especial educational nature.

“There boy,” Mr Teddington pointed with his pipe to the corner nearest the door. Tomkins could hardly disguise his irritation. The housemaster was enjoying this too much. The sixth-former turned around to face away from his tormentor.

“Closer boy! I want to see your nose touch the wall.” Tomkins shuffled into position.

“Hands on head!” The housemaster was determined to treat Tomkins like a junior boy, as if he were one of the fags.  Tomkins puckered his lips; he could not argue with the housemaster, but he could express his irritation with the man.

He interlocked his fingers and placed them on his head. His nose was so close to the wall he could smell the dust on the wallpaper. Behind him, he heard the sound of newspaper rustling in Mr Teddington’s hands. The stink of his pipe wafted across the study.

He was kept waiting for probably only a few minutes, but to the boy awaiting a thrashing it was an eternity. The housemaster was truly a sadist.

“Turn around Tomkins,” the housemaster ordered. At last, Tomkins thought. Let’s get this over with. He swivelled on the balls of his feet and faced the housemaster. His hands were still firmly on his head.

The housemaster growled. “Come forward and stand in front of me.” Tomkins did. At such a close range it was noticeable that the schoolboy was easily two or three inches taller than the master. Tomkins was thin and wiry, while the housemaster was portly. In a fair fight, Tomkins could have knocked the man to the ground with a single blow. But this was not to be a fair fight. The schoolmaster was in complete control. The boy, eighteen years old or not, had no choice but to obey the orders of his persecutor.

“Take your hands off your head and stand up straight.”

Tomkins exhaled an inaudible sigh and did as he was told. His attention wandered as the housemaster jawed him. Smoking cigarettes was a disgusting habit, he said. It was bad for the health. But, more than that, it was against the rules. Tomkins knew that; he had been beaten once already this term.

“So, you deserve a sound thrashing and that is what you will receive. I’m giving you twelve cuts on the bare.”

Tomkins’ eyes blazed. Twelve. On the bare. That was twice the usual punishment and nobody, as far as he knew, was ever beaten bare. The colour drained from his already pasty-coloured face, but he remained standing, silent, waiting for further instructions.

His eyes followed the housemaster as he went to the tall, narrow cupboard and took out the cane he had already decided to use. It was dark yellow in colour, quiet thin, but made of very dense rattan. It would leave its marks on Tomkins’ behind for many days to come.

Mr Teddington flexed the cane thoughtfully between his hands, then swished it through the air. It looked an awesome weapon, much more threatening than the stick the housemaster had used to beat him last time, Tomkins reckoned.

“Stand by the desk,” Mr Teddington pointed with the cane. Tomkins hesitated. Damn it, he thought. I’m eighteen years old, a prefect. I’m too old to be caned. He breathed deeply, debating with himself whether he should voice a protest.

What would be the point? Tomkins and the other fellows in the Sixth knew the new discipline regime was instigated by the headmaster. If he argued, or worse still refused to be caned, he would find himself up before Dr Tredlow. The brute would probably birch him in front of the entire school. No, Tomkins knew, he had to let matters take their course. He had to offer Teddy his bare arse.

He moved towards the desk, but stopped short by two or three feet.

“Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more.

“Get those pyjamas down boy.” Tomkins blushed. It was not that he had never taken his trousers off in public, he had. Each night he changed into his pyjamas in a dormitory full of boys. He had seen the “privates” of many young men and they had seen his. But, he resented having to strip for the pleasure of the old brute standing before him. To strip and then offer up his bared buttocks to the master to whip with his swishy cane.

After some moments, Tomkins looked down at his waist, pulled at the drawstring holding his pyjama bottoms up and allowed them to fall to his ankles.

Mr Teddington stood within Tomkins’ eye line, but the boy studiously ignored him. Then, the housemaster swished his cane through the air two or three more times. Then he tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Without question, Tomkins leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk. His pyjama jacket was covering his bottom. Mr Teddington pushed it further up his back.

“Underpants Tomkins. You don’t wear underpants with pyjamas. Stand up. Did you think underpants would give you extra protection?”

Tomkins rose, sullenly. Protection? Did the wretched housemaster think he was a coward, he thought? Tomkins always wore pants; it was the only way to keep his erect cock from poking out the pyjama flies.

“Get them down,” Mr Teddington barked.

Sorrowfully, Tomkins took hold of the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down to his ankles, where they rested on top of his pyjamas.

“Bend over boy.”

Tomkins repeated the manoeuvre. The housemaster pushed his pyjama jacket up, this time revealing a pair of smooth and hairless buttocks.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.”

Tomkins closed his eyes and shut his mouth tightly. He felt the tap of the tip of the cane exploring his buttocks. The housemaster seemed to be taking an excessive amount of time. A wicked thought struck Tomkins, “He’s admiring my bum.” And then he had a more horrifying thought, “He can see right up my crack and into my hole.”

What he could not see was Mr Teddington standing to his side a full cane length from him and bending his knees a little. The housemaster drew his arm back several feet and crashed the cane across both buttocks. Tomkins whelped and a thick red line immediately appeared where the cane had bitten into flesh.

A second stroke immediately fell, landing an inch of so lower than the first. Tomkins gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, even though it had been a rhetorical question.

Pain started at the buttocks and travelled at speed up and down the boy’s legs. He could feel two thick welts rising, running across both his buttocks.

The third and fourth cuts landed across the previous two. The agony was searing. It felt like the cruel housemaster had laid a white hot wire across the sixth-former’s cheeks. Tomkins jerked his body from left to right. He buried his head in his folded arms.

Mr Teddington lashed down strokes five and six. The agonizing slices cut in wickedly, stinging fiercely, making Tomkins squeal, rock and writhe violently.

The housemaster swiped a couple of strokes high and a couple low. The sickening pain quickly overwhelmed Tomkins’ senses

“Arrrggghhhh.” The boy bit into his own arm after the next cut slashed into his quivering buttocks.

The final stroke was whipped in diagonally across both of Tomkins’ buttocks, hitting many of the previously delivered cuts as possible. Tomkins’ face was almost as red as his backside. His eyes were damp and he was trying hard not to cry.

The housemaster tapped the cane once more across the lacerated bottom. Tomkins braced himself, expecting another slash. But, there were to be no more. Mr Teddington tapped the cane on his left buttock one more time.

“Don’t let me catch you smoking again.”

“No sir.”

Tomkins lay face down across the desk, breathing heavily. His bottom was a furnace. Never before had he felt such pain. His smooth, hairless, previously white, bottom was a mass of red welts. Some were turning blue and would change to purple before too long. Blood was forming at some of the intersections where the final diagonal cut had crossed the others.

“Stand up Tomkins. Get dressed.”

Tomkins shot up from the desk. The pain was great; the humiliation even greater.  He wanted to get out of that study. Tears of pain and shame welled. But he determined he would not cry in front of the brute. He would not. He would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him badly. In one swift movement he bent down to grab his underpants, but it was with great difficulty that he pulled them up to his waist. He winced in agony as he tugged the Y-fronts over his buttocks and they connected with his wounds.

He bent down to his ankles again to retrieve his pyjama bottoms, flinching as he stretched the flesh of his buttocks against his pants. He pulled at the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms and with trembling fingers made an imperfect double-bow. That would have to do for now.

“Back to your dormitory. No more trouble,” Mr Teddington snarled.

He was through the door in a heartbeat.



Other stories you might like

Yellow Pages spanking

Theft of petty cash

The rooming house


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second