It was 30 years ago today
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!”
Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty
years ago.”
Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.
“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”
Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St.
Francis has always been a very traditional school.”
“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were pleased when they abolished the cane,”
Jackson wriggled on his chair.
“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in
state schools. St FIGS is an independent
school,” he laid great stress on the word independent.
“The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in
1999.” And more’s the pity, he
thought. Look how the county had gone to
the dogs since.
“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did
you ever cane a boy Sir?”
Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging
at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly
questions.”
He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.
“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not
sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.
Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers,
Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”
“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the
back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.
@
Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in
Ant’s bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together.
“Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of
centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.
“War …?” Robbie was speechless.
“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not
been asked. “It’s the real deal.”
Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached
forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it
in his hand.
“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”
Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never
mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched
buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.
“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break
it.”
Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a
metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It
was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He
gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand.
Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly
flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a
wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the
real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off
to.
“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate
would love it.
“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.
They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a
shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a
glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a
plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in
Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.
Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say
something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate.
His cock was on the march.
Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm,
rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it
into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old
fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished
the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.
“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and
picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He
manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.
“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He
had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the
chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten
the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.
“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain
and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to
buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”
Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his
heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He
took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and
leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they
usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being
over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies.
His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back
and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr.
Hawkes who wielded the cane.
Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large
to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over
one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back
chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his
backside to his friend.
Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed
about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never
caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took
up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across
his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like
this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He
took aim again.
Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often
had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged.
He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a
sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the
fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He
licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times
online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used
so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of
it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot
over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see
the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.
It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was
at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation
(or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and
with a flick of the wrist sent it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers.
His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.
Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it
harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”
Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism,
he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the
strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s
bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The
Avenue.
Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking.
“Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and
gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie
could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never
experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived
six-of-the-best?
The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie
shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His
hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s
reflex action to the assault.
Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even
with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of
his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s
arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton
trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.
A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched
teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down
like a sentry on guard duty.
“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously.
“Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”
“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into
the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be
reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this
time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there
was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some
centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.
A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.”
He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the
other furiously rubbing the seat of his
trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s
backside was a similar colour.
“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down
his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred
buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each
gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a
throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the
ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank
off watching it.
“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”
“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He
stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers
and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s
jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the
guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.
Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up
into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he
supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.
Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a
terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made
for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his
aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked
thigh. He screamed.
Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry
they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.
Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.
Picture credit: The
Magnet
For
more Original Fiction, click here
Traditionalschooldiscipline@gmail.com
Comments
Post a Comment