Baxter stretched his limbs beneath the itchy grey blanket. The clock on the bookcase said eleven-fifteen. He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. Too late to go to lectures now, he thought. Not that he had intended to.
He surveyed the room. His trousers were strewn over the small leather armchair. His jacket and shirt was on the solid oak table. What a night it had been. He and Marshall had taken in a show and then it was back to his pal’s room for drinks and smokes.
Baxter’s cock still ached. Marshall had been insatiable; gobbling him five times at least. What a mouth, large and round. And he knew how to keep his teeth out of the way. He hadn’t had so much pleasure since the young guardsman at Hyde Park. He had taken out his dentures so had no teeth before he went to work.
Baxter’s cock stiffened, he licked the palm of his right hand and gently massaged the tip of his manhood. He was interrupted by a heavy knock on the door. “Who is it,” he called not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.
“Manners, Sir,” came a clearly enunciated reply. Baxter groaned. “Yes, what do you want, Manners?” He released his grip on his cock. “I have a message Sir, from the Tutor.” Baxter sighed, “Slip it under the door, there’s a good chap.”
A white rectangular envelope glided under the door. Baxter watched uninterested. I must tip the servant five-bob sometime, he reminded himself before with the sound of Manners’ footsteps fading into the distance on the stone stairway he returned his attention to his throbbing cock.
It was much time later that he remembered the message. It was a printed card with the time and date filled in by hand summoning him to his first meeting with his tutor; the man who would oversee his studies during the three years Baxter would be at the university. Jolly good chap, he thought, he’s inviting me for tea, he had a deserved reputation for providing a good spread.
Baxter admired his reflection in the mirror as he went about his toilet; it was 1926 and all was well in the world. He was at university and his father was paying his bills. He spent most of his time at the theatre or cinema. He wrote revue sketches that he performed wherever and whenever he could. He was a hit a parties. His was perfecting one character in a particular; a middle-aged schoolma’am irritated by a group of young gals (“Don’t do that Clarisa!”). His mother provided the frocks.
A chap only had to attend the first lecturer of term, write his name in the attendance book, and then he need never return. After three years of this there would be examinations, but Baxter did not care; three years was a lifetime.
Baxter was puzzled when he arrived at Mr. Townsend’s study to find he was to be the only visitor. There was no party. Mr. Townsend was a senior man maybe in his fifties with a younger, vivacious wife – much loved by the students – but Townsend himself was a bit of a cold fish. He had unruly grey hair and a neatly-cut beard. His conventional double-breasted jacket fitted him too tightly. He peered down his angular nose through eyes that were a little too close together.
He was courtesy personified. “Mr. Baxter,” he sighed, at the nineteen-year-old undergraduate standing before him. “Rules permit those residing in College to be out late a maximum of three times a week. You have been late six times this week and a further five last.” He drew in breath and continued, “I have not been informed about your behaviour in the previous weeks.”
Baxter blinked furiously. Manners had ratted on him. Well he could say ta-ta to that five bob.
“Mr. Baxter, you are at the university to learn. You must attend lectures and tutorials.”
“Yes, Sir,” Baxter mumbled. It was like being back at school.
“You were at St. Tom’s were you not?” Mr. Townsend stretched his arms.
“Yes, Sir,” mumbled again for Baxter was unsure if he was expected to answer.
“A very traditional school, I believe?”
“Eh, yes, Sir.” What did his old school have to do with it?
“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”
Baxter was silent. He didn’t like where this one-sided conversation was going.
“I am sure your headmaster would have given you Six for slacking, Mr. Baxter.”
Colour rose up Baxter’s face. “But we’re not at school.”
Mr. Townsend frown and then a slight smile worked the corners of his lips. That’s what they all said, he thought. Aloud he said, “You are not an adult until your attain the age of twenty-one,” it sounded to Baxter that the Tutor was reading from a script. “I stand if you will in loco parentis. You might considered me to be your father, but that might lead to unwanted complications. Instead, you must think of me as your housemaster at school.”
He paused and peered intently at the young man’s puzzled expression struggling to understand the full import of the Tutor’s statement.
The Tutor stood, stretched his arms and walked slowly across the study. It was a small room, dominated by a walnut desk and three small leather armchairs. A bookcase filled a whole wall. He paused in front of it, but not to choose a volume. There was a tall, thin cupboard at one end and Baxter watched uncomfortably as the Tutor took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and opened the door. The undergraduate could only see Mr. Townsend’s back as he reached inside, but the rattling noise he heard was unmistakable. Seconds later the Tutor turned to face the boy; in his hand was a thin, whippy rattan cane.
Mr. Townsend eyed the rod as if seeing it for the first time. Ignoring Baxter’s burning stare he first flexed it between his two hands and then swished it through empty air. Baxter gulped. It was a little shorter and quite a bit thinner than those used at St. Tom’s but he had no doubt it would sting like the blazes.
“But, Sir, can’t we talk about this?” Baxter blustered.
Mr. Townsend’s lips pursed. They all said that as well. “There is nothing to say Mr. Baxter, unless you want to be sent down for the rest of the term. What would your father think about that?”
Baxter squirmed. He knew darn well what Dad would think. There’d be no more university; he’d have to work for his living. He said none of this to the Tutor, instead he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.
Mr. Townsend busied himself turning one of the low armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Baxter hopped from one foot to the other. There was no turning back. He would be brave. This was not the first time he had been caned.
“Please lower your bags and bend over the back of the chair.”
Baxter blanched. That was a first; a trousers-down caning. “B… b…” he started a protest but stopped himself immediately. What was the point? The tutor was in charge, Baxter had broken the rule about late nights and a few others that the Tutor did not seem to know about.
“Come on please Mr. Baxter,” the Tutor tapped his cane on the back of the hard leather chair, the noise ricocheted around the room. “I have others to deal with this evening.”
Baxter took a deep breath. His belt unfastened easily and his loose-fitting trousers slipped over his hips. It took the slightest tug to have them at his shoes. Penguin-like he shuffled two steps closer to the chair, looked over his shoulder to give his master an imploring look, found the Tutor determined, and slid himself over the chair.
He looked down at the seat cushion inches in front of his face. It was patterned in greens and blues. Summer colours. He concentrated carefully. He needed to focus on something. Such as the large, round, greasy, indentation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of posteriors had contributed to the dent. It was an old chair. It had seen much action. He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.
His heavy trousers were at a puddle at his feet. His grubby off-white underpants were riding up into his buttock crack. He couldn’t have felt more self-conscious. Embarrassed. Humiliated, even. A cool gust of wind brushed his naked legs. The study window was slightly ajar. He felt Mr. Townsend’s strong hand grip the tail of his shirt and roughly bundle it up his back. He did the same with the singlet. Now, there was nothing between Baxter’s cotton-covered backside and the Tutor’s cane.
He could feel it pressing into his flesh. Mr. Townsend was finding his spot. Preparing himself. It would be any moment now. Baxter waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr. Townsend, a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baxter imagined, the Tutor flexing the cane.
He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the Tutor laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.
“Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being expelled. The boy tightened his grip on the seat cushion.
Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.
Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baxter had expected. The cane was smaller and thinner than at St. Tom’s but somehow it had more whip and sting than those at school. Mr. Townsend was an expert caner. He was able to inflict maximum pain with seemingly minimal effort
The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. The Tutor was giving it some beef; he could have been beating a carpet. Baxter bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to yell. It felt as though there were three throbbing ridges beneath his underpants.
Baxter was astonished by the severity and intensity of the strokes. He felt flushed and humiliated. Cold perspiration ran down his shoulders. After number four hit home his legs were marching up and down on the carpet. Tears flooded his eyes.
Number five hit low. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair. His feet stamped up and down but the smooth soles of his shoes could not grip the cheap carpet beneath them and his legs slid from behind him. He banged his head up and down on the chair. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as blood rushed through his entire body and tried to exit through his ears.
Mr. Townsend adjusted his position. Baxter’s body tensed. He knew what was coming. The Tutor laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks from the lower part of the left cheek to the top of the right. Slash! Baxter’s bum had a perfect imprint of a five-bar gate. His backside vibrated vigorously and he let out a piercing howl. For a moment he released his grip on the chair and started to stand, he wanted to dance a jig – anything to deaden the agony. He regained composure and resumed his hold on the chair tightly.
“Enough. It’s over. You may stand.” Mr. Townsend continued to talk as Baxter dressed. “I hope we do not have to repeat this Mr. Baxter, but if we do, please be aware that next time I shall double the tariff and reduce the protection of clothing.”
Baxter fastened himself up. The throbbing in his corrugated bum was intense. He might be bleeding. He nodded vigorously at the Tutor but said nothing. “Time for you to leave,” the Tutor smiled, extending his hand. They shook like gentlemen. Baxter hobbled to the door, turned the handle and opened it. He was not surprised to see Marshall standing outside, ashen faced.
Picture Credit: Kernled
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