The Padded Armchair

z used drawing armchair (1)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper.

He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper. It was as simple as that. It didn’t matter whether you were in the first form, or like Jack the Upper Sixth. He wasn’t alone. His friend Jenks had just been dealt with and Tony Wheeler was standing outside the room in the corridor waiting his turn.

Jack wasn’t a fool. In fact he was quite bright but he hated history and nothing Mr Hendry, the history master, did would change that. If he paid attention in class and read the text book he would pass his tests with ease.

But, he didn’t so here he was about to get a sore bum: again. It wasn’t the first time he had received corporal punishment and it wouldn’t be the last, it was that sort of school.

Jack looked across at Mr Hendry and only half listened to the lecture he was delivering. “Idle, blah blah; lazy. blah, blah.”

Mr Hendry wasn’t like most of the other masters at the school. He was only twenty-five and had a round open face that naturally liked to smile. Jack had seen Mr Hendry one weekend in town at a coffee shop. He was dressed in fashionable summer shorts with a flower-patterned shirt. He was with a young lady (was it his girlfriend, or wife even?) and they were laughing and joking and having fun. They seemed very relaxed in each other’s company. No one would have guessed he was a schoolmaster at crusty old St Francis Independent Grammar School.

Mr Hendry looked very different now. He was dressed in a dowdy checked sports jacket and big baggy dark grey trousers. And of course the traditional academic gown, the schoolmasters’ uniform at St Francis. Mr Hendry had learned a long time ago that masters did not smile, and he had perfected a sour expression that fell somewhere between a man who had both a pain in his stomach and a very unpleasant smell under his nose.

“Bend over the chair Wilks.”

Jack took a pace forward and eased himself into the soft padding of the chair. It was a huge leather chair with cushions at the back, the seat and even the arms. His body sank into the padding and his face rested on the seat. He put his hands forward and held on to the edge of the cushion and noticed there were two sweat stains in the shape of palms.

From his vantage point Wilks could watch Mr Hendry make his final preparation. The slipper he was to use was a size-ten white plimsoll, the type all the boys used in physical training classes. It was rare for schoolmasters to use the slipper at St Francis, the curved-handled rattan cane was the preferred weapon of chastisement.

Herr Mueller, the German PT instructor, was the only other master Jack could think of who used the slipper: and, he used it all the time. Only yesterday in gym class he had lined all the boys up to begin physical jerks and warned. “From now on, any boy who talks gets ten swats.”

Of course, the class joker Morrissey couldn’t resist saying, “Jawoll Mein Führer!” in a stage whisper.

 

Later that day when Morrissey showed off his marks (tight cotton PT shorts are no protection), he reckoned, “Do you know I think he enjoys whacking our arses.” It could be, and, one might suspect, Morrissey enjoys giving him the excuse.

Mr Hendry gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand and gave it a few smacks down into his left palm, to get its measure. Then Jack saw the master disappear behind him. The teenager was still wearing his green school blazer and the master had to manoeuvre it up his back a little away from the area of immediate interest.

Satisfied that the target area was clear, the schoolmaster gripped Jack’s trousers at the waist and tugged them up tight so that they performed a ‘wedgie’ emphasising the shape of his buttocks and the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

Jack took a deep breath and screwed his eyes tight and waited for the pain to begin.

The boys often discussed whether the cane hurt more than the slipper; Jack always voted for the cane. In truth, it depended on who was inflicting the punishment. The cane tapped lightly into fleshy buttocks is unlikely to hurt as much as a size-ten rubber-soled plimsoll whacked in at great force.

Mr Hendry believed in corporal punishment and knew for it to be effective it had to be painful. So he was of the ‘whack it in with great force’ school of disciplinarians. And, that’s exactly what he did to Jack.

Six swipes crashed into his upturned buttocks. He pushed his face down into the vast soft cushion to stifle any yelps he might need to make and gripped onto the front of the armchair for dear life.

Every whack hurt him, but he had to admit, it did not hurt so very much. He was sore, but very quickly the throbbing would turn into a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender for a while and he would have some bruises to show off to his classmates, but they would wear off pretty quickly.

“Stand up boy.”

Jack was red faced from being bent upside down over the chair, but there were no tears. Despite the number of times he had been beaten at school, the experience always embarrassed him and he kept his head down to avoid looking at his punisher. He even avoided eye contact when the master handed him the punishment book to sign.

Then, with his bottom tingling, Jack was dismissed with the words, “Send in the next boy.”

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

More stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Through the window

The honourable thing

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

A maintenance spanking

Father Must Be Obeyed

The terrible twins

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Pyjama Bottoms Down. Bend Over

z used cane pyjamas bare desk london CPS

I was sitting in my oak-panelled study waiting for Tomkins of the Sixth to report to me. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to give him twelve on the bare. He needed to learn a lesson and I was the one to teach it.

I luxuriated in my armchair reading the evening newspaper, enjoying my pipe. I was in no hurry. I had made him wait all day and only now, just before lights out, I sent word for him to see me immediately.

There was a light tap on the study door. Tomkins was here. I paused before answering. “Come!”

Tomkins knew he was due a beating. The door handle turned slowly and very reluctantly he pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into my study.

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

He closed the door as instructed and stood only a couple of paces inside the room, not sure what to do next.

“You wanted to see me sir.”

I peered at him over the top of my reading glasses. Tomkins, an eighteen-year-old senior boy, a prefect no less, was dressed in grey-and-white-striped pyjamas. He was hopping from one bare foot to another in confusion.

“I’m not yet ready for you! Face the wall and wait for me.”

He 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,” I pointed with my pipe to the corner nearest the door.

He turned around to face away from me.

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

“Hands on head!” He did as he was told.

I returned to my newspaper. Let him sweat a bit, I thought.

After a few minutes I had finished the newspaper and contemplated the task in hand. Tomkins was a repeat offender and had been caught smoking again. As his housemaster, I’d already beaten him once this term for smoking and he had been warned about his future conduct.

Smoking was bad enough, I thought as I puffed on my pipe, but to do it again after a previous punishment and thereby to disregard my instruction was rank disobedience and I would have none of it. His beating had to be exemplary.

“Turn around Tomkins,” I ordered. He did so, still clasping his hands to the top of his head.

“Come forward and stand in front of me.” He did. He must have been two or three inches taller than me, and I noticed for the first time that he was really incredibly thin.

Maybe it was because he was in his pyjamas. Last time I thrashed him he had been in full school uniform, including a pullover and blazer. That clothing must have bulked him out a bit.

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

He did so. Tomkins wasn’t a particularly pretty boy, I noticed. His thin face was pock marked and his teeth were pretty bad and if he carried on smoking the way he did they’d soon be yellow.

But, it wasn’t his front side that I was interested in this day.

I lectured him a little. It wasn’t really necessary: he knew why he was here. And, then I pronounced sentence.

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

I’m not sure he was expecting that. It was twice the number of strokes I had ever given him previously and canings on the bare at this school were rare indeed.

The colour drained from his already pasty-coloured face, but he remained standing, silent, waiting for my further instructions, and ready to comply with them.

I’d thought hard about whether it should be on the bare, after all his pyjama bottoms wouldn’t be much protection for the twelve stingers I intended to administer. But, he was a prefect and a serial offender and I was convinced he was cocking a snook at the school rules and my authority in particular, so I wanted to make him suffer.

I was also aware of a newspaper report I read a year or two previously. A school housemaster was in court charged with ‘indecent assault’ after he beat a boy on his bare bottom. How it got to court I don’t know. The magistrate dismissed the case and said if this was to be considered indecent assault half the housemasters in English public schools would be in court. Sensible fellow.

Not everybody believes in caning naughty schoolboys, of course. I have a housemaster colleague at the school here who never canes. He says the embarrassment of the punishment is as effective as the pain it might cause. Therefore, he takes his boys across his knee for a spanking.

I looked at Tomkins. Think about it, telling an eighteen-year-old boy to bend over your knee and then smacking him on his bottom.  Can you imagine such a thing?

I went to the tall, narrow cupboard and took out the cane I had already decided to use. It wasn’t a big thick stick. People with no experience of these matters always assume the bigger and thicker the cane is, the more it will hurt. Not so.

The cane I chose 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.

I took it from the cupboard and swished it through the air, to show the boy what it could do. He looked apprehensive, as well he might.

“Stand by the desk,” I pointed with the cane. He moved in the right direction, 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.” After some hesitation, Tomkins looked down at his waist, pulled at the cord holding his bottoms up and allowed them to fall to his ankles.

I stood within his eye line, swished my cane through the air two or three more times. Then I tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Without question, he 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. I pushed it further up his back.

“Underpants Tomkins. You don’t wear underpants with pyjamas. Stand up.”

I suppose he wanted the extra layer of protection the Y-fronts would give him. He might have got away with it if he was to be whacked on his pyjama bottoms.

“Get them down.” 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. I pushed his pyjama jacket up, this time revealing a pair of surprisingly smooth and hairless buttocks.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.” I stood to his side a full cane length from him and after bending my knees a little I tapped the tip of the cane against the edge of his left cheek.

The tapping allowed me to take aim and then drawing my arm back several feet I crashed the cane across both buttocks. He whelped and a thick red line immediately appeared where the cane had bitten into flesh.

I repeated the procedure. He gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, even though I had intended it as a rhetorical question.

Two thick welts were rising, running across both his buttocks.

I managed to land the third and fourth cuts on top of the previous two. Tomkins was jerking his body from side to side. This was a reflex action against the pain, but mostly he was managing to keep quiet.

I liked the boys I thrashed to be stoic. I despised the boys who couldn’t take their canings and yelled and bawled their eyes out. I had enough experience beating schoolboys (and of being on the receiving end myself) to know that my canings hurt like hell. The boys might try to make it look that they were unconcerned by the pain, but I knew otherwise.

I lashed down strokes five and six. Tomkins’ head rose from the desk and he brought his arms back so he could bury his face in them.

I swiped a couple of strokes high and a couple low and was rewarded with a four almost inaudible “Arrrggghhhhs” from Tomkins.

The boy seemed to bite into his own arm after I delivered the next cut.

I whipped the final stroke diagonally across both of Tomkins’ buttocks, making sure the cane hit as many of the previously delivered cuts as possible. This time he desperately tried to muffle a loud yell, but he couldn’t quite keep it in.

I looked over at his face. It was almost as red as his backside. I could see his eyes were watering and he was trying not to cry.

I tapped the cane across his bottom. He braced himself, expecting another slash. But, there were to be no more. I had promised him twelve strokes and I had delivered twelve. I was a man of my word.

I tapped the cane on his left buttock one more time.

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

“No sir.”

He was still lying across the desk. I walked behind him to admire my handiwork. 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 my final diagonal cut had crossed the others.

“Stand up Tomkins. Get dressed.”

He shot up at such a speed he startled me. 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 pulled 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 stood up and I was able to look him in the face. I could see he wanted to bawl his eyes out, but pride I suppose stopped him from doing this.

I gave him time to tie the cord of his pyjamas waistband.

“Back to your dormitory. No more trouble.”

He was through the door in a heartbeat.

Picture Credit: CP Services London

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

 

Winker Wilson’s visit

If you dress like a little boy …

The military kid

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

z used drawing cane quelch (78)

Former pupil Kevin Smith returns to St Francis only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

This cannot really be happening; but here I am a twenty-one-year-old newspaper reporter standing in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study about to get six-of-the-best. The very best.

My name’s Kevin Smith and I work for the Brocklehurst Bugle, a weekly newspaper in a small town on the south coast of England. I’ve only just started as a cub reporter. I think I got the job because I was born and brought up in Brocklehurst and they wanted someone who knows the area. Also, I live with my mum and dad so that means the paper doesn’t have to pay me too much. Jobs in journalism are as hard to find as hens’ teeth so I was absolutely knocked-out when I got the job. I like it a lot and I hope in time I’ll be a really good journalist.

I used to be a pupil here at St Francis Independent Grammar and after I got my A-levels I went away to university. But, now I’m back. My editor knows I used to be a pupil here and that’s why he sent me on this job. The Grammar’s just had its annual speech day and I have to pick up the names of the pupils who got prizes and so on. Pretty boring actually, but you know local papers they love stuff like that.

I was really pleased to be asked by my editor to do this job because I thought it would give me a chance to go back to my old school and maybe show off a bit, about how important I’d become.

But, I had forgotten something very important. And, now my past was about to catch up with me.

“Well Smith,” Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, looked at me stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

“Before we talk about speech day, I think there’s some unfinished business we must deal with.”

“Unfinished business.” What did he mean?

And, then in a rush, I remembered. Blast! How could I have forgotten?

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, was seated behind his huge desk, topped in green leather. I knew from experience that when he stood up he was commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. And, he was strong as an ox, as could be testified every time he swiped down a cane across a boy’s backside.

I was standing in front of him, every inch, in his eyes, the naughty schoolboy deserving of just such a sound thrashing.

“A matter of the decomposed frog in the science laboratory, I believe.” Dr Henderson-Smith was rather pompous in the way he talked. He always had been. He still was. He strung out the word “la-bor-a-torrry” to give it full dramatic force.

Now, I was absolutely certain what he was talking about. But, he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I couldn’t look him in the face and cast my eyes down to examine the red patterned rug that I was standing on. I noticed my shoes could do with polishing.

The headmaster had centre stage and like the old ham actor he was, he was going to have his moment. He intoned the details of my crime, making sure every last detail was recorded for posterity.

In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. Three years ago when I was in the sixth-form here, I played a prank on my final day as a pupil. It was silly and very unpleasant for Mr Wilkinson, the science master, but that’s all it was, a schoolboy prank.

None of the boys much liked Mr Wilkinson. He was very strict and he thought nothing of peppering our backsides with the cane. There can’t have been many boys he taught who didn’t get a whacking from him at least once. You could get it for anything. With other science masters, pupils used to love to lark about during lessons; science does that to you, all those Bunsen Burners and test tubes. But, you never larked around with Mr Wilkinson – or, at least if you did it once, you never did it again. His cane made sure of that.

Mostly, though we got the stick for poor work. God help any boy who didn’t do his homework or did badly in a test. And, I don’t mean fail a test, if you did that, it meant death. But, Wilkinson would beat you if you got less than seventy out of a hundred in one of his classroom exercises and as you might imagine that meant a lot of boys showed him their backside over the years.

So, you can see why I thought it would be jolly good fun to play a trick on him. Here’s what I did. I took one of the frogs that we had for dissecting so we could explore the gizzards inside. You know the sort of thing; you would have done it yourself at school. So, I took one of these frogs, mashed it up a bit and put the dead body in Mr Wilkinson’s desk.

Then we all set off for our summer holidays and for me it was the last time I set foot in the school until today.

So now here I am standing in front of the headmaster listening to him recount my misdeeds. How, six weeks later the by now fully decomposed frog had been discovered in the laboratory. He told me about the stench, the bluebottles and the maggots. The headmaster seemed to be enjoying himself.

“So, Smith, what do you have to say for yourself?” I wanted to ask how he knew it was me, but I think I know the answer to that. As every schoolboy knows there’s no point in playing a trick on a master and keeping it to yourself, where’s the fun in that? So, that summer hols I was full of it. It wouldn’t have taken anyone at Brocklehurst long to find out who did it.

There was no denying it. I had done it and now I was found out.

I really didn’t have anything to say, so I just stared at the rug. I could see it was a little bit threadbare (generations of naughty boys shuffling their feet before being ordered to bend over so they could get a close up view of the pattern?).

The headmaster mistook my silence for denial. “Do-you-deny-you-did-this-thing?” he tried to get dramatic effect with every word.

“No sir,” I blurted out the response. I think this took him a bit by surprise, I think he was expecting denial and then a big argument.

“So-you-do-not-de-ny-you-per-pet-rate-ted-this villle-cer-ime?” he seemed a bit disappointed he wasn’t going to get to play another dramatic scene.

So, I coughed to it. Yes, it was me, I did it, I’m sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time, now I know it wasn’t a good thing to do, I’m sorry.

Actually, I am sorry. I’m not in agonies of guilt about it, but I can see that the frog must have been a pretty disgusting mess by the time Wilkinson discovered it at the end of the summer vac. I also know I was just trying to show off in front of my friends.

There was silence for a moment as the headmaster seemed to weigh up his options about what he would do next.

And, unsurprisingly perhaps, he decided to do what a headmaster would do in these circumstances.

“You committed this crime while a boy at this school and you should be dealt with accordingly,” he was speaking more naturally now.

Without another word, he stood up from his plush leather chair and walked the three or four paces to a set of cupboards running the length of one wall. My eyes followed him. He pulled his academic gown to one side so he could delve into a trouser pocket to withdraw a small bunch of keys. Selecting one, he unlocked one of the cupboards.

I should have guessed. Inside were an array of punishment canes, the headmaster was blocking my sight, but I could see at least four crook-handled rattans. Dr Henderson-Smith put his hand in the cupboard and as he did so he moved his body a little and I could see it contained many, many more. He seemed to be looking for a particular stick. In no time he found it, withdrew, locked the cupboard, and turned to face me.

I wasn’t terribly surprised. If I had been found out while I was still a pupil here I would have been beaten. Maybe, Wilkinson would have done it himself, or maybe he’d have sent me to the head. Who can be sure? But, either way my bum would be on fire.

The head placed the cane on his leather topped desk and walked to the far side of the study. There was a wooden-backed chair leaning against the wall. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He picked it up and placed it on the rug in front of his desk, just as if he was putting it there for a visitor to sit on. But, I knew I wasn’t going to be sitting down, not on this chair, and probably not anywhere comfortably, for some hours to come.

“Stand by the chair,” it was a calm instruction, not barked as if an order. I walked over and as instructed stood facing the back of the chair. “Closer boy,” Of course, I was about three feet from the wooden back of the chair, there was no way I could bend over from there.

I shuffled a couple of paces forward. Dr Henderson-Smith stood to my right hand side, I turned my head slightly to see what he was doing and for the first time I saw close up the cane he was going to use to whip me. It wasn’t like any cane I’d seen before. I’d been caned a few times before, not just by Wilkinson, it was that kind of school, so I’d seen a few sticks in my time.

This one was different, it was amber in colour and no longer than any others and no thicker, if anything it might be a bit thinner than the one Wilkinson used on me the last time. Dr Henderson-Smith held the cane at the crooked-handle end with one hand and he ran the other over the length of the rod, bending it ever so slightly as he did so. Then he let go and swished the stick through the air. That’s when I realised this cane had more power than any I had suffered before. It might be thin, but it was whippy and it was going to pack one heck of a punch.

I looked down at the trousers I was wearing thankful that they were rather fashionable and expensive. They were made of a very dense material and would provide some protection, I was sure.

The headmaster pointed the stick at the lower half of my body. “Take down your trousers and bend over the chair.”

“What the hell, no way!” I didn’t say it out loud, of course. Up to this point I wasn’t too worried about getting the cane. I’d had it a few times, I knew it would hurt, but I also knew I could take it. I’d take my Six and that would be it.

But having seen the implement he intended to use on me and now being told it’s “trousers down,” I was far from sure.

What could I do? There was a simple answer: walk out. He had no right to thrash me, even though I had been a naughty boy while at school. That was in the past and he had no jurisdiction over me now. But, I knew, or thought I knew, that if I did that Henderson-Smith would tell my editor about it and I’d be in trouble at work.

I’ve only just started at the paper and I’m on what they call ‘probation’ for six months, that means if I don’t fit in I get sacked. I didn’t want that. Jobs in journalism were hard to come by and I might not be lucky enough to get another one. I really didn’t have any choice.

“Quickly boy, do as I say,” the headmaster swished that fierce rod once again.

This is it. Deep breath. Let’s get this over with. Although in my mind I had decided to take my punishment trousers down, I couldn’t get my body to agree. My hands fumbled at the buckle of the thick black leather belt I was wearing. I couldn’t quite get that prong thing out of the hole in the belt.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

There, I’ve managed it, the belt’s undone. Getting the trousers undone was just as bad. I’d never noticed before just how many buttons there are on trousers. My fumbling fingers got the two at the waistband undone.

I couldn’t see him, but I felt the eyes of the headmaster burning into the back of my head, Swish! He was practicing his strokes.

At last the waist was loose and I pulled at the fly. All undone. I let go of my trousers and the weight of the thick leather belt and the force of gravity sent them crashing to my ankles with no help from me. I felt a breeze as the thick cloth passed by my knees.

And, that I think is where you came in. I’m standing here in the headmaster’s study my trousers around my ankles in my blue-and-white striped Boxer shorts about to bend over the chair for Six.

The headmaster is still behind me. I can feel his cane tapping my behind. “Not exactly school uniform are they?” he says, almost absent-mindedly. I want to say “No they’re not and that’s because I am not one of your schoolboys, I’m a grown man.” But, I don’t. The tapping continues. Christ! Please don’t tell me to pull down my pants.

Before he can say anything else I bend over the chair. It’s quite an ordinary chair really. The back isn’t so high so I can go over it without my stomach touching it. I am putting my hands out in front of me clutching the far corners off the seat, one with each hand.

I am as ready as I am ever going to be. And, so is the headmaster.

Swipe! Jesus H. Christ! That hurt. It got me right in the centre of my bum. I can feel a welt rising and I’m pretty certain it runs across both cheeks from left to right.

Swipe! Crack. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching onto the chair for dear life. Gasping.

Swipe! No! Please no more! I’ve got three stripes, all on the fleshy part of the buttocks. I can feel where each one has landed; they’re running parallel about a quarter of an inch apart.

Swipe! Swipe! God in Heaven! I will not cry. I will not cry. These two are lower than the others. One has hit me on the crease where the fleshy bum connects with the thighs.

Swipe! Ouch! One cut lower than all the others. I can’t help it I yell out and my legs kick out behind me. I want to stand up and rub and rub at my bottom. I have gripped the chair so tightly that as I move to stand I find myself lifting the front two legs clean off the ground.

That’s it. Six-of-the best. It’s over. I’m waiting for permission to stand. I just want to get the Hell out of here. I want to run down the street clutching my bum and howling. Please let me up.

Swipe! Swipe! Yowll! No! No! No! Stop I cannot take any more. My whole body is writhing in pain. I can hear the headmaster speaking, it sounds as if he is miles away. He is instructing me to keep still.

Swipe! Swipe! Ouch! Arrrrh! I’m bleeding. I’m sure I can feel blood seeping under my Boxers. I move my lower torso from left to right and back again. Has the blood made my underwear stick to my bum?

Swipe! Yow-yow-yow!! The bastard! I can’t breathe, I’m truly gasping. He’s deliberately laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks so it landed across all the other fresh welts. I cannot, I cannot, take any more of this. There is a pause. I can feel the headmaster moving from my left hand side to my right. Oh, no, he isn’t?

Swipe! Yesss He Is!! He whipped the cane across my wounds from the other side. I can feel criss-cross cuts right the way across my buttocks, running from the top to the bottom and from left to right and back again. I am bleeding and I am beaten.

“Get up.” I stay still across the chair breathing heavily. I can stand but I cannot be sure that I will be able to walk. The throbbing pain is so severe; I have no words to describe it.

“Up boy.” I can feel his hand on my shoulder helping me to rise. He lets go of me as I stand unsteadily. Tears are flowing and sobs are coming in great big gulps. I watch as the headmaster returns to his cupboard, unlocks the door and replaces the cane that has just ripped me apart.

“Get dressed boy.” I hadn’t realised I was still standing trousers at ankles. I desperately want to touch both buttocks, to explore the extent of the damage, but I don’t want the headmaster to see.

Oh my God, how will I explain this to Cindy, my girlfriend? It will take weeks, no months, to heal.

I am bending down to grab the waist of my trousers. The pain sears as my buttocks stretch with the effort. I grab the trousers, pull them up and repeat the fumbling with buttons and belt.

I am not quite sure what will happen next.

“Tuck your shirt in boy,” the headmaster is smiling as he returns to his desk, sits down, opens a drawer and pulls out a sheaf of papers, which he is handing to me.

The speech day results.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

Bend over. Touch your toes

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Teen’s Tale

Was I a typical teenager? I think so. Certainly I was no different from my friends. We couldn’t stand adults; our parents, schoolmasters, the vicar at church. We didn’t think they had much to tell us.

We spent a lot of our time just hanging around in groups “having a laugh.” There was a particular bus stop just outside of town that was our meeting place. Buses didn’t run much after about seven o’clock so we weren’t usually disturbed. We’d buy (or sometimes steal) bottles of cheap cider and get rowdy drunk. If a passer-by complained, we’d soon chase them off: law-abiding citizens are easily cowed by drunken teenagers.

I had just turned eighteen and was close to leaving school. My dad had just been promoted at work and was now a factory manager, but it meant he had to move to a town about a hundred miles away. I didn’t want to go; I’d have to leave all my mates and I hated my parents so much I was pleased to see the back of them. But, I still had a few months left at school so I couldn’t get a job and find a place of my own to live.

My Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice stepped in and said I could stay with them until I left school. I hated them us much as my mum and dad, but I had no choice. She was such a stuck up cow who always thought she was a cut above the rest of us. Her father worked in an office, while my family were mostly factory workers. Uncle Alistair was a jobbing builder, so I don’t know she had much to crow about. They only lived a couple of streets away, so I wouldn’t lose my friends and my life wouldn’t change much: worse thing.

I went to the local grammar school, so that suited her social pretensions. I didn’t like school much, but had a knack for passing examinations without doing much work and my parents made me stay on into the sixth form. Another reason I hated them. I didn’t like being bossed around, and if you don’t like being bossed around, you should not be at grammar school.

There are so many useless, pointless, rules. I loathed wearing school uniform; you could see us coming from a mile off in our pink blazers. We even had to wear short trousers until the end of the third form: fourteen-year-old boys in short trousers, no other school in town humiliated their pupils like that. And, don’t get me started on the stupid school caps they forced us to wear.

I hated the “masters” as we had to call them. Most of them had been at the school since Adam was a lad and had never done a proper day’s work in their lives. They wouldn’t last an hour at dad’s factory. They thought they were proper Christian gentlemen and decided the boys at the school should be too. Nobody ever asked me. I skipped chapel once; I was eighteen and decided I could make my own mind up about God and Jesus and all that. There was Hell to pay.

I was found out of course, I knew I would be. We were always answering to roll calls, having our names taken, masters checking that we hadn’t absconded. It was a caning offence, but I reckoned that sixth-formers were immune from the stick, even at that school.

My headmaster soon corrected me on that idea. I didn’t get thrashed that time, but he told me if I skipped chapel again he would whop me himself. I had to write a two thousand word essay on why Jesus was important in my life. Two thousand words! Believe me I would have preferred the cane to that any day: trousers down; pants down, six strokes, twelve: anything but that essay.

One thing I did like about being in the sixth-form was the power it gave me over the younger boys. They were terrified of me. It was only a few years earlier that the headmaster had taken away the prefect’s power to spank the younger boys. I would have loved to parade around the school, gym plimsoll in hand, able to whack the arse of any boy I fancied.

In my time the best we could do was to hand out ‘punishment slips’ which the boy took to his form master. When the boy collected three slips he was beaten. It wasn’t the same as the plimsoll, but the boys knew I scattered slips like confetti so it came pretty close.

You didn’t have to be in the sixth to be a bully. One thing I loved to do when I was about fifteen or sixteen was to beat up on the sissies; those boys who were a little bit different from the rest of us. They were easy targets, scared of their own shadows most of them. They would never defend themselves. There was one lad (I forget his name now: Kevin? Keith? Karl?) who I loved to push around. You only had to touch him and he would fall to the ground and curl up into a little ball. He was crying before I ever got the first kick in. I took his lunch money most days – it helped to pay for the cider and my smokes.

With my parents out of the way I tried it on a lot with my aunt and uncle. I skimped on my homework, lazed around in my bedroom most of the day; that was when I wasn’t out with my friends hanging round the bus stop and haranguing old folk going about their business.

The final straw for pious Aunt Alice was that I stopped going to church. It’s not that I refused to go: there was no argument, no discussion even, I just stopped going and that for me was the end of the matter. Not so for my aunt and uncle. Aunt Alice in particular berated me for non-attendance and was rewarded by my most hostile indifference.

Maybe that was the point at which they decided I needed a damned good hiding, but if it was, they put it off for another week or so.

I finally found myself with a red backside one Wednesday in June. It was a school night and as had become my habit, I would return from school, get out of that horrid uniform and wait in my bedroom playing records at full volume until it was time to eat. My aunt often implored me to turn down the noise, but the more she showed her dislike, the more determined I became to annoy her.

Meal times were always strenuous times. Looking back on it I wonder if my aunt and uncle weren’t going through a difficult patch in their lives: surely, I thought at the time they must have been bored to tears with their pathetic mundane lives. They definitely found it difficult to communicate with one another and impossible to do so with me. I made no concessions to them: any question they asked me would be returned with a one word answer, or just a grunt.

When tea was over I would almost immediately disappear out the door, never telling them where I was going, who I would be with and what time I would be back.

Eventually, Aunt Alice imposed a curfew: I should be home by nine-thirty at the latest on school nights and ten at the weekend.

Yeah right, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, there was no need to. I had no intention of sticking to her stupid new rules. To Hell with the both of them, what right did they have to order me about!

The very same night I rolled home drunk at past eleven o’clock. Nobody was up. Emboldened by this, two days later I missed curfew again.

At breakfast the morning after I skipped curfew for the third time, Uncle Alastair simply informed me that he had been keeping watch and if I was late ever again there would be “dire consequences.”

So, naturally, I took this as a challenge and even though it was a quiet night at the bus stop and most of my mates returned to their homes early, that night I walked the streets alone for another hour to make sure I wouldn’t get back home before eleven.

I could see the lights were on in the living room as I approached the house. As I turned the key in the lock I heard Uncle Alastair call.

“In here. Now!”

Sullenly, I slouched into the room, with the most disrespectful expression on my face that I could assemble. My uncle was alone, he looked very tired indeed, of course it was way past his bedtime. I can’t be sure if he had prepared a little speech for me, but if he had he muffed his lines. He was incoherent with anger but “brazen”, “audacious” “insolent”, “disrespectful” and “rude” were some of the words that faltered from his mouth.

He was impatient for me to respond but I said nothing. Who cared what he thought, the miserable little man.

His lecture at an end, Uncle Alistair commanded, “Go upstairs, have a wash, clean your teeth, put on your pyjamas and then come back down here, and be quick about it.”

Corporal punishment was imminent: I knew the tell-tale signs; I’d been spanked often enough at home by my father. I trudged upstairs and as I spread the Pepsodent on my toothbrush I wondered what uncle would do to me. My dad’s preferred method of torture was the razor strop. He would make me take down my trousers to my ankles and I would have to lay face down on the bed with two pillows under my stomach so my bum was high to meet the lash of the leather. I kept my hands well clear of the target while he raised the strop back over his own shoulder, took aim and whipped it down into the seat of my underpants. The pain was immense, but I soon learned not to wriggle about. If he missed my bum and hit the bare flesh at the back of my thighs I wouldn’t be able to stand for a week, let alone sit down.

“Hurry up!” It was uncle, as impatient as ever.

I rubbed a wet cloth across my face and hurried into the bedroom, quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into my pyjamas. I was still tying up the drawstring of the bottoms as I descended the stairs.

Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice were waiting for me in the living room. I gave her my most disrespectful stare. So the snooty mare was going to witness my spanking was she?

I quickly glanced around the room but could see no obvious implement of punishment. Uncle was wearing no belt. Did my aunt have a hairbrush in her apron pocket? Was he going to smack me with his hand?

He gave me a short sermon about manners and disobedience and even managed to bring God into it. Then he hopped on one leg, bent down and removed one of his bedroom slippers.

It was all over in a flash. He grabbed me by the left arm, quickly untied the string on my pyjama trousers and they easily fell to my knees. Then, unceremoniously he took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me over the back of the worn-out sofa. Then there was a frenzied attack with the slipper on my bare bottom.

I was indignant. The sod didn’t believe I would present myself for a spanking. Who did he think I was? Corporal punishment was common in those days and we boys had an unspoken code of conduct. We often misbehaved and sometimes we were very bad indeed. We got away with it a lot, but when we were caught we accepted it. So we would submissively sprawl across a knee, bend over a chair or sofa or spread ourselves across the dining room table. We would be on the painful receiving end of the slipper, belt, razor strop, hairbrush, hand or cane. And we would take it like troopers.

Next day we would report back to our mates; often displaying the cuts and bruises to our admiring friends. Then, like film critics, we would award ‘stars’ for the best performances. My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum.

Uncle Alistair loosened his grip on my neck and I struggled to my feet. My buttocks were a little sore, but it was nothing compared to my father’s beatings. I said nothing, but I hoped my look of utter contempt told its own story.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed; I pulled up my pyjamas and went to my room. My bum wasn’t very sore, but there was a tingle that soon disappeared. There would be no marks to show the next day, not that I would tell the others. We were eighteen years old now and I doubted if their dads were still spanking their bottoms at that age.

….

z used drawing cane master (18)

I was counting the days until I could leave school. The examinations were a little over a month away and then I would be free. I had all but given up on my studies. I still attended school (there were many opportunities to bully the younger boys), but took no interest and did as little homework as possible.

I was idling around the sixth-form common room one day, shortly after my run-in with Uncle Alistair, when the sixth-form form master approached.

“See me in my study immediately after school,” he was a man of few words and he swept away, the tail of his tattered schoolmaster’s gown flapping, before I could ask what it was all about.

It could have been about anything. If there was a rule to break, I was likely to break it. Even as I sat pondering, I knew I had in my pocket a packet of illicit cigarettes, paid for with money I had extorted from an eleven-year-old first-former who was desperate not to get his third punishment slip and the beating that would come with it.

I had more than an hour before I had to obey the summons. I cursed; I had no lessons at this time and was intending to bunk off early. Wearily, I picked up a football magazine that one of the other boys had left behind, sat down and flicked through the pages.

I didn’t want to delay this longer than was absolute necessary. Two minutes after the bell had stopped ringing for end of school my knock on the study door received a haughty response.

“Come!”

It wasn’t so much a schoolmaster’s study as a functioning office. There was a desk and a large padded chair behind, where the form master was seated. A couple of low back chairs were ranged in front of the desk for visitors and apart from that there was a sideboard affair consisting of some cupboards and bookshelves.

I stood facing the desk a foot or two back from the chairs. From this position I could see that they were the ideal height for a boy to bend across. Doubtless, they had been chosen with this purpose in mind.

I still did not know why I had been summoned by the form master. I didn’t have long to wait as he got straight to the point. “slacking”, he called it: a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” I had not been working hard enough in his classes. I had not submitted homework on time. My marks were falling. He didn’t ask me to respond, but if he had I could only agree with him. I despised my form master. He taught the sixth form poetry and he was lousy at it. I couldn’t understand the point of it (and to this day still can’t). He could not, as we say these days, “motivate” me.

He was a decaying old man and I scorned him for being so old. His liver spots spread from his neck to his face and it had been many years since he stood erect and his stooped shoulders reminded me of a bird. A shock of untidy white hair stuck out from beneath his mortar board and his moustache and beard were as white as his hair. He was the image of the schoolmaster in that film Goodbye, Mr Chips.

Old though he might be, my Mr Chips could still pack a punch with his right arm as I was about to find out.

Once he had read out my crime sheet, he moved straight to sentencing. I swear I heard his bones creak as he slowly raised himself from the chair and shuffled over to the sideboard. Only then did I notice that one of the cupboards was an unusual shape: tall and thin. He opened it and even though his body obscured my view, I could see inside were a number of crook-handled rattan canes. There must have been six or seven of them in varying thicknesses and lengths. I could hear the canes rattling around the cupboard as he searched for the implement he intended to use on me.

Within seconds he had extracted his preferred model and turned to face me. He flexed the cane between his left and his right hand as he gave a little lecture about the need for me to study hard. If I did not have the self-discipline to do this on my own, then he had the perfect remedy: he would impose discipline on me.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that cane. I still don’t know why I was so transfixed by it. I had seen canes before; indeed I had felt them across my backside a few times. This one was deep yellow in colour and was as thick as one of Mr Chips’ bony fingers. It must have been three feet (maybe more) long and flexed easily in the form-master’s hands.

He swished it through the air for effect, if he intended this to intimidate me, he failed. It just made me hate him all the more. This pathetic old man, who couldn’t teach for toffee, was going to beat me because I was not doing well in his class. I was eighteen years old and in a few weeks I would be away from that goddam school forever, but here I was expected to submit myself to Mr Chips so he could whop me with his cane.

I had a choice, of course. Even as I stood watching the cane swish through the air I knew I could refuse to take a beating. I could tell him to stuff it and swagger out of the study. I could do that, but it would be a direct defiance of his authority. The headmaster would be involved and I could rest assured that he wouldn’t be on my side. There would be no two-thousand-word essay (“Why the cane is not an effective punishment for slacking schoolboys”) as an alternative. All I could look forward to was expulsion from the school and the bastards probably wouldn’t let me take my exams.

I only had five more weeks left at this school and I didn’t want to throw away the past two years of misery now.

Mr Chips pointed with his cane to a spot in the middle of the room.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

I hesitated and he must have read the contempt I had for him in my face because he almost bellowed, “Bend over and touch your toes, this instance!”

I moved to the spot, took a deep breath and placing the palms of my hands on my knees I offered Mr Chips my backside.

Swish!

“Ouch!” I yelled and stood bolt upright, squeezing my hand under my armpit. Mr Chips had lashed his cane across my knuckles.

“When I say touch your toes boy, I mean touch your toes. Now, bend right down.”

I blew on my knuckles, parted my legs a little, bent at the waist, and stretched my fingers so that the tips rested against the toe caps of my shoes. A thick stripe across the back of my left hand was turning blue.

I was quite a fit lad at the time and was able to keep in place without much effort, but there was pressure against the back of my knees.

Looking through my parted legs I saw Mr Chips approach me and then I could feel him take hold of my pink blazer and push it up my back away from the target area. Then he rolled up my jumper a little, giving him an unobscured view of the grey trousers, now stretched across my buttocks. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. I felt a cool breeze blow across the inch or so of now bare flesh at the base of my back.

Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my trousers and tugged so that any wrinkles were smoothed from the cloth.

Then he took my arse off.

He had the strength of an ox. With no interval between cuts, he lashed down six stingers across the very centre of my buttocks each one landing very close to, and sometimes right on top of, others already delivered.

It took my breath away. Quite literally. I was gasping and stifling yells at the same time. It was all over in about twenty seconds, six whacks crashing down one after the other. I buckled a little, but just about managed to stay in position. No matter the agony I was suffering, I was not going to stand up and give him the pleasure of inflicting extra strokes.

It was over. I stayed looking at my scuffed shoes awaiting his permission to stand. My backside was throbbing. It must have been red raw and I could feel welts had formed across my bum. I had been caned before, but this beating was not like anything I had endured previously. I so much wanted to run away to the bogs, sit down on a lavatory pan and pull the flush so the cold water could soothe my aching buttocks.

Eventually he said, “Stand up, boy. Stand there.” I rose and moved to a spot in front of the form-master’s desk. I could not look him in the eyes. I had despised him when I entered the study and I hated him even more now, but my contempt was mixed with the intense pain in my arse. I did not want him to know he had hurt me.

He wrote some words in the punishment book and handed it to me to sign.

Then to add to my fury, he said, “If you fail to get at least an Alpha-minus in the essay I set the form today, you will be back here for another thrashing. Is that clear?”

It was, and I was. No number of beatings could make me good at poetry.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

 

 

When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Sixth-formers

z used school longs cane desk (46)

Rodney and Griceforth shuffled down the passageway neither were anxious to arrive at their intended destination.

Rodney, dark haired and slim and the smaller of the two eighteen year olds, glanced furtively around him; hoping that nobody would see him. So far, so good; his mission had not yet been detected.

Griceforth, taller and thicker set, was less concerned. It had not even occurred to him that there was any shame in this walk. He was apprehensive, that was for certain, but not fearful of being seen.

The cause of his apprehension was the possible fate that awaited them when they arrived at the housemaster’s study.

Mr Brightchurch was still a bit of an unknown quantity. Sure, he had been a master at the school for as long as anyone could remember, but only recently had he been elevated to the position of housemaster.

Old Mr Fennings had retired after more than forty years at the school and not before time many of his colleagues secretly felt.

“He’s a doddery old fool,” Brightchurch had remarked one evening after a little too much sherry had been drunk. Nobody disagreed, but even so it was not the kind of thing a chap said out loud.

The house had gone to ruin under Fennings’ stewardship. Boys did as they pleased, safe in the knowledge that there was nothing to fear from the ultimate sanction, “Go report to your housemaster!”

But that was then and this was now. Brightchurch was a younger man, in his forties, the boys guessed, and he had the energy and the desire to clean up the house. He let it be known to masters and pupils alike from the day they screwed his nameplate on the heavy oak door that he meant business.

Eventually, Rodney and Griceforth reached their destination. With the colour draining from their faces the two sixth formers paused as each waited for the other to go first. After a few moments the fear of keeping the housemaster waiting overcame all his other fears and Griceforth took the lead and politely tapped on the door.

“Come!” the voice was gruff. Griceforth gulped slightly and with nervous fingers turned the handle and slowly opened the door.

“Griceforth!” The sandy-haired sixth-former stood in front of the large walnut desk, slightly to the left, following the direction of the housemaster’s sweeping hand.

“Rodney! a smaller wave indicated that the dark-haired teenager should stand alongside his accomplice.

The housemaster was sitting at his desk, which was, like everything else in the room, a model of tidy, well-organised efficiency. His tightly-knotted military necktie stood out against his gleaming white shirt, which contrasted with the dark material of his neatly-pressed suit. His mortar-board cap rested to the edge of the large desk and an academic gown hung on a hat stand in the corner of the room to his left.

The boys saw little of this. They stood hands clasped behind their backs, with eyes cast down at the rather worn rug beneath their feet.

“I presume the pair of you are both familiar with the school rules on smoking,” Mr Brightchurch’s red face glared at the two sixth-formers.

The housemaster was genuinely angry. Sometimes schoolmasters were apt to put on the style a little; to pretend anger to frighten already quivering little boys into submission. But this time Mr Brightchurch did not need to feign fury: sixth-formers smoking on school premises. Who the Hell did they think they were? It was a total disregard for well-established and well-known school rules.

If they thought they were too important to obey the rules they had another think coming. Only yesterday he had beaten two third-formers for the same offence. If smoking was a caning offence for thirteen-year-olds, why should sixth-formers be treated any differently? It would not be fair on the younger boys to allow these eighteen-year-olds to escape a similar punishment. And, Mr Brightchurch was nothing if not a fair man; but the wretched teenagers would be very happy for him to be unfair on this occasion.

“Sir.” Griceforth nodded. Yes, he knew the school rules.

“Yes, Sir.” Rodney spoke quietly to himself.

“So, you have no excuses then?”

“No, Sir.” Rodney shook his head nervously.

“No, Sir.” Griceforth had not taken his eyes off the rug since the moment he took up position in front of the desk.

“Think yourselves very lucky we are not having this conversation with the headmaster!” Mr Brightchurch seemed incapable of speaking at a normal volume, “Because be in no doubt the pair of you would already be clearing your desks!”

The following silence suggested the two boys should respond, but Griceforth was fixated on a worn spot on the once-red, now faded, rug, while Rodney bit his lip anxiously.

“However, I shall deal with this matter!” A sigh seemed to escape from the innermost depths of his soul; such was his burden of guiding the young people of today.

“Therefore I am able to offer you a choice between the headmaster’s suspension or six strokes of the cane. You may have a few moments to consider.”

He pretended to find some papers needed his urgent attention, but really he was watching their every move. Griceforth looked at Rodney, whose eyes were now studying the ceiling. Griceforth was an untidy boy, growing so rapidly that his magenta school blazer was now too small for him. His mid-grey trousers were a little too tight around the waist and buttocks and fell an inch or two short of his ankles, displaying too much grey sock. He was typical of many of the sixth-formers; they were to leave school shortly and their mothers did not think it financially worthwhile to purchase a new uniform with only a few months of the final term to see out.

Rodney was altogether different. His blazer was recently dry-cleaned and his trousers fitted him well. They too might have been recently cleaned or be new; the creases down the legs were so sharp, the boy might have cut his hand on them if he were not careful.

Mr Brightchurch looked at Griceforth with some distain; the boy clearly needed his shaggy sandy hair cut. He blamed the pop stars of the day; they wore their hair so long they were indistinguishable from the girls.

Rodney, meanwhile, had a very conventional short-back-and-sides schoolboy’s haircut, kept in place by copious amounts of Brylcreem.

When he was ready Mr Brightchrch rustled his papers and opened and closed a drawer. He was ready for a response.

“Well? What is it to be?” he stared menacingly at Griceforth; he knew from past experience that he was the dominant member of the guilty duo.

Griceforth, though, turned his face towards his shorter dark haired friend, trying to read his mind.

“I’ll take the cane, Sir.” It was a clear no nonsense response.

Rodney blinked in amazement at his companion. His heart pounded as he knew he had to make his own decision.

“Rodney?” The housemaster was impatient.  “Come along, boy!”

“I’ll… I’ll t-t-t…” Rodney stammered, he wanted to flee the room and run home to his mother. A suspension from school would not be such a bad thing, his parents would be furious of course, but he could handle that. But, Griceforth had chosen to be caned. The die had been cast. If Rodney refused a beating, he would forever be called a chicken by his fellow school friends.

He still could not quite form the words. “I’ll have the cane, Sir,” he breathed, staring once more at the ceiling as he contemplated the ordeal he had selected.

“Best to get it over with, don’t you think?” Mr Brightchurch rose from his padded chair and strode a few paces across the study towards a slender but tall cupboard in a far corner. He delved into his trouser pocket and extracted a bunch of keys. In no time he found the one he was searching for and unlocked the cupboard.

The two boys were still facing the desk and with their backs to Mr Brightchurch they were unable to see the large collection of canes hanging from a rail. Carefully, as if he had never seen them before, the housemaster selected one and then another and then a third to flex between his hands to test the suppleness of the rod. He swished cane number two and cane number three through the empty air as if taking their measure.

Satisfied with the rod he had chosen to thrash the two sixth form rule-breakers, he carefully locked the cupboard door, put the key in his pocket and returned to his desk.

Standing in front of the housemaster’s desk, both with their hands behind their backs, the two boys stared down at the walnut surface. Only now did they notice the surface was strangely clear of any paperwork or other material. Even the telephone had been removed. Only the housemaster’s mortar-board disturbed an otherwise entirely empty desk top.

Mr Brightchurch saw the two boys looking wide-eyed at the cane in his hand. It was a rattan rod, a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. At one end it had a traditional curved handle. When he had ordered his selection of canes from the supplier they had advised him to get the ones with crook handles.

“It is surprising how the sight of the crook handle sends shivers through a boy,” Mr Henderson of the cane suppliers had said. It certainly seemed to have an effect on Griceforth and Rodney, Mr Brightchurch observed with quiet satisfaction. He allowed them some moments to tremble and mull over in their minds the terror the cane represented.

Only when Griceforth finally averted his eyes from the cane in his housemaster’s hand and met his stare with his own nervously darting eyes, did he feel the time was right.

Mr Brightcurch tapped the tip of the cane on the surface of the desk towards the right hand side. “I shall ask you in turn to bend over this end of the desk. Six strokes each, if you remember.”

Both boys stood rigid to the spot, their eyes scared and faces grim.

“Griceforth, don’t think I don’t know that you are the ring-leader in this. Perhaps you would like to go first.

Griceforth’s eyes flashed. His heart pounded against his ribs before, with a nervous twitch of his head, he moved slowly round to face the end of the desk. With just the briefest of glances at the waiting housemaster, he began to lean across the polished surface.

As his hands reached down to touch the hard wooden desktop, the cloth of his grey school trousers tightened even more snuggly across his buttocks.

Finally, with his chest pressing into the desk and his arms folded below his face, Griceforth closed his eyes and waited, willing himself to endure the ignominy and pain of being eighteen years old, a senior boy, and given six of the hardest strokes with the cane.

Mr Brightchuch swished the cane in mid-air, but he was not quite ready. He leaned forward and took the tail of the boy’s blazer and folded it an inch or two up his back, away from the intended target area. Griceforth slowly moved his buttocks from side to side, as if to encourage his punisher in his task.

Not for the first time the housemaster noticed the tightness of the lad’s trousers. They fitted across his cheeks so snugly that the outline his underwear was clearly visible. Stupid boy, he was wearing mini-briefs; so scant that they hardly covered his buttocks. It would be easy for the housemaster to slash his cane across the underside of the globes and bypass the underwear altogether.

And that is precisely what he did. Griceforth felt the tip of the cane touching him gently across the seat of his tight school trousers and then stroke by stroke, slice by slice, the new housemaster made his mark on the boy’s rear end.

Just a brief but awesome whoosh of air preceded the wooden crack that appeared to echo round the room as the jerked his head up in response to the cutting pain that spread quickly across his bottom like wildfire. He breathed out noisily, drew air in and breathed it noisily out again.

“Ouch!” he gasped, sucking air into his lungs so sharply he felt his flesh tight against his cheek bones.

There was a short delay; then another swish and another whipping cut into Griceforth’s chunky buttocks. The sandy-haired teenaged boy gasped in pain and looked up to see his friend Rodney looking down at his bottom, his face a picture of terror.

Three strokes rained down in parallel with each other, working their way up to the top of his buttocks which ultimately shook, twisted, swayed and clenched in a frantic attempt to swamp the unbelievable legacy of pain left by the cane. His chest heaved as he gasped in great gulps of breath. His thighs rubbed together as he wrestled with the demons which were chewing up his bottom.

Mr Brightchurch played the cane over the entire surface of Griceforth’s buttocks before raising it one last time and slicing a devastatingly accurate, forceful stroke just above his thighs. A startled yelp flew out of the boy’s mouth and bounced off the wall. His legs buckled as he fought against the savage line of pain which was charging into him. His hands dug into the wooden desk top and his eyes watered as another cry burst from his throat.

Pain shot from his thrashed buttocks up and down his legs as he prised himself away from the surface of the desk and stood unsteadily and struggled to regain his balance with his hands hovering around, but not daring to touch, his inflamed buttocks. He staggered away from the desk and stood unsure what he was expected to do next.

Mr Brighthouse brushed his hand thereby instructing the now distraught boy to stand by the bookcase and away from the housemaster’s firing line.

Cane in hand, the housemaster waited with an air of resigned impatience as Rodney gingerly made his way towards the desk, with legs that felt as if they had been turned to lead and timidly bent over into the required position. The cane tapped impatiently against the housemaster’s neatly pressed trousers, as though to confirm its imminent use.

Rodney heard the swish…crack! And then felt the most searing pain he had ever known. It was a line of white fire that took his breath away and he struggled to hold on and not move. He wanted to let out a screech and jump up clutching his bottom, but he sucked in a breath and gripped the desk fiercely. He felt another tap and seconds later another searing stroke cracked against his bottom. The third was just as bad. Tears welled in his eyes, but he held still.

The cane chewed up his buttocks, turning them into a morass of raw, red, raging ridges which burned and glowed and reignited with every additional stroke. It hurt so badly. Rodney was holding on, but the searing agony of each whack with that whippy cane across his rear was too much. How could the housemaster expect him to hold still and take punishment like this? Each stroke was a red hot line of fire. His face was scarlet, he gritted his teeth, but the tears were coming anyway. Please don’t let me bawl like a baby, he prayed silently.

With six swipes expertly delivered, Mr Brightchurch, tucked the cane under his armpit, walked across the room, unlocked the cupboard and returned it to its home. Rodney still lay face down across the desk gasping like a goldfish out of water. The searing pain in his arse was so great he could not be sure that he would be able to stand.

“Come boy!” Mr Brightchurch was still booming, “It’s over. You may stand up!”

In intense agony Rodney levered himself off the desk top and at first unsteady on his feet, he bent double as if this might ease the considerable agony in his buttocks. His eyes were shining but what tears there had been had now stopped. He hopped from foot to foot in the way that generations of caned schoolboys had always done.

“Both of you stand there!” The housemaster pointed to a spot in front of his desk. As they waddled into position, Mr Brighthouse leant forward and opened the desk drawer and extracted a hard-covered exercise book. He flicked through the pages. Several pages had been completed in the past two weeks alone. He found the page he wanted, and taking a fountainpen from the inside pocket of his jacket, he unscrewed the top and wrote down the names of each boy, the date and the words, “Six, cane, seat”. He then pushed the punishment book across the desk.

“Please sign your names!”

Griceforth looked forlornly at Rodney, who blankly stared back.

“Pah!” Mr Brightchurch was ready to explode. “You don’t even have a single pen between you.” He opened the desk drawer, rummaged around inside and found a ballpoint pen, with a rather chewed top.

“Here!” he thundered, thrusting the pen at Griceforth. Sorrowfully, the boy took it and scrawled his signature in the book.

Rodney took the pen from his friend with a shaking hand. The pain coursing through his body was so great even his hands were affected. He gripped the pen between two fingers, stooped forward slightly and squiggled something against his name, before letting the pen slip from his fingers onto the desk top.

Satisfied that the punishment ritual was almost complete, Mr Brightchurch returned the book to the drawer.

“You are dismissed. And no more smoking!” he roared, offering his hand to each astonished schoolboy to shake before they limped from the study.

Picture Credit: British Discipline

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

Other stories you might like.

The coach and the schoolmaster

The sneak thief

The smiling boy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Never Too Old

z used cane holding (14)

“Stand up straight boy.”

“Take your hands out of your pocket.”

“Take that look off your face.”

I wasn’t used to this. Usually, when a boy stood on the carpet facing my desk, he was contrite. “Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full sir.”

But, not this boy Rawlinson; he was as cocky as they come. He needed taking down a peg or two. And, I knew the best way to do that: a flogging with my cane.

Reluctantly, he stood straight. At first he held his arms limply at his sides and then, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with them, he clasped them behind his back.

He was an older lad. He was dressed in a shiny red blazer, long charcoal-grey trousers, with an immaculate crease down each leg, a grey shirt and tightly knotted red and silver striped tie. He resembled just about any of the schoolboys who had ever stood in my study to receive a lecture as a prelude to a thorough thrashing from me.

“You were seen drinking beer in the Goat’s Head. What have you to say for yourself?”

The Goat’s Head was a pub in town, frequented by under-aged drinkers. One of my colleagues had spied Rawlinson in the bar last evening.

There wasn’t actually a school rule that said pupils could not go into pubs, but I think you would agree with me that we can take it as read that they should not do so.

“Well boy?”

I swear he snorted his reply. “No I wasn’t.”

My blood pressure rose slightly.

“How dare you argue with me boy! You were seen.”

He stared straight at me. “I wasn’t there.”

This was outrageous! I don’t think I had ever in my entire career encountered such insolence from a boy.

“Don’t lie to me boy. You were seen by one of the masters.”

“Who was it? Which one?” he snapped back at me.

I struggled to retain my temper.

“I do not intend to bandy words with you about this matter. Accept that you were caught red-handed and take your punishment.”

“No. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.” There was not a trace of fear or contrition in his voice. Usually, by now a boy would be close to tears, confessing all and begging for mercy.

“You were there.” I thought I might be sounding a little foolish. We were beginning to behave like two squabbling children. “You did. I didn’t.”

I was sure how to conclude this. It was my intention to beat him black and blue with my heaviest cane.

But he was not yet ready to submit.

“Let there be an end to this!” I roared as I reached over to a wicker basket containing an array of swishy canes. I selected the heaviest and turned to face Rawlinson. It was a crook-handled senior cane that I used on the older boys when I wished to ensure that the message was clearly understood. This particular model had more spring than flexibility and this meant a significant degree of bite.

Still there was no look of fear in his eyes. He did not even pretend to be nervous or scared.

I swished the cane a few times so he could see I meant business. His eyes followed, fascinated by the arc of the cane as it moved through the air.

“I am going to beat you and I am going to beat you severely. Not only have you been drinking in the pub, you have shown no remorse. Further, you have shown disrespect to your headmaster. I shall give you twelve strokes for each of those offences.

Rawlinson looked at me unabashed. Did I feel more anxious than he? I had never delivered thirty-six strokes at the one time before. Surely his backside would be a mess by the time I laid down my cane.

“But, Sir. I’m too old to be caned, Sir.”

Too old? Good God, they were never too old to be caned.

“Stop that nonsense at once, Rawlinson. You will take a beating, or I will arrange for you to be expelled from this school. What is it to be?”

I swear he smirked. I was dumbfounded, now. I had never been treated with so much disrespect by a boy.

“Hang your blazer on the door boy and stand in front of the desk.

Without hesitation he did as he was told. He faced my desk, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Rawlinson, bend over the desk.”

Rather eagerly, I thought, he stretched his arms out and dived across the desk. He wriggled into position, his stomach flat on the desk and his arms folded in front of him.

His bottom was raised slightly on the near edge of the desk. I moved forward and grabbing the tail end of his grey jersey I pulled the garment up his back. He now offered a superb target, his trousers stretched across his plump buttocks.

“I want you to count as each stroke is delivered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” delivered in a clear, strong voice.

“Spread your legs wider.”

He did so without fuss.

My first stroke was a beauty. It landed dead centre and fully covered both buttocks.

“One sir, thank you, sir,” he responded without hesitation. Other than that there was no reaction to the searing pain that must at that moment have been travelling from his buttocks all through his body.

And, this was repeated three more times. I was caning hard and he was taking it like a man. I could see clear deep lines had formed across the trouser seat where the cane had struck home. Again, he counted in a clear, resolute voice.

I don’t think I have ever caned a boy as hard as I did Rawlinson that afternoon.  All twelve cuts were superb stingers, delivered with all the power I could muster. Any other boy would have been howling with the pain and dancing over the desktop. I shouldn’t be surprised if they begged for mercy.

But not Rawlinson. I knew he must be in agony. How could he not be after a thrashing like that? His buttocks must be throbbing like mad.

“Stand up Rawlinson. Those twelve strokes were for being in the pub. The next twelve are for not showing remorse. Take down your trousers and bend back over the desk.”

The trousers were down in a jiffy, revealing that he was wearing tight white briefs. I suspected they were a size or two too small for him. This was confirmed when he went back over the desk. I could see a set of welts had formed under the pants. My thrashing had indeed hit the mark so to speak.

“Twelve more Rawlinson. You know the rules. Count after each stroke.”

Again, I laid twelve humdingers into his backside. He counted them off without faltering once. I could see that under the tight cotton some of the welts were beginning to seep blood.

“Stand up Rawlinson.” He sprang to his feet.

“Now for showing disrespect to me, twelve on the bare. Take your pants down.”

He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them tumbling to his knees. He parted his knees slightly and they fell all the way to his feet.

“Back over the desk.”

I had a perfect view of his by now scarified buttocks. There was some blood, but they there were not, as yet, open wounds. But, soon there would be. I didn’t mind about this at all. I had my job to do.

I lashed into him twelve more times. Not once did he cry out. His body stayed in place hardly moving during the entire thrashing, but as the final six cuts whooshed into his already raw flesh he let out an almost silent cough as each one slashed into him.

It was over. I looked down at the boy prostrated across my desk. He appeared to be breathing evenly, unperturbed by the whipping I had delivered to him. I think maybe it had been more of a physical ordeal for me than for him. I had put my all into the 36 strokes. I was the one breathing heavily.

“Get up boy.” He did so and stood before me. He at least had the good grace to shuffle his feet a little, as if to admit that, yes, he was in some pain.

“Get dressed.”

He pulled up his pants and trousers and buckled his belt, as if he did not have a care in the world.

“You are dismissed.”

Jauntily, he grabbed his blazer from the hook, turned the handle on the door, and was gone.

Five minutes later, more composed myself, I exited my study. Crossing the hall, I knocked on the door of the room opposite.

“Yeah, come in.”

I found Rawlinson, trousers and pants at his knees, admiring my handiwork in a mirror.

“So, how was it?” I asked.

“Brilliant. Fantastic. Wonderful,” he replied a broad smile across his face.

“So, what now?” I inquired.

“Let me put my short trousers on. Then you can take me across your knee and spank me as hard as you like.”

“Okay. I’ll go back to the study. You come along when you’re ready.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

Missed Opportunities

The drunken neighbour

The run

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com