Waiting for the slipper
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
I’m not bothered. No, really, it won’t hurt much. It’s true
that the gym master Mr Cartwright is a big, strong fellow. Not that long ago he
was playing rugby for the county. He can pack a punch no doubt about that. But a
gym plimsoll, even a size-twelve one, can’t do that much damage.
Well, maybe to a first year. A little one might be
overwhelmed by the slipper, but not me. A slipper is no use on a boy my size.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking that Cartwright puts a cane across my backside.
That will hurt. And may I remind you that I’m not wearing pants under those
shorts.
I do feel a bit foolish, I suppose. Made to bend over the
horse and present my backside so a master can pummel it. It could be worse,
those shorts could be at my ankles. Actually, no they couldn’t; not at this
school anyway. I can’t see, of course, but I think I’ve given Cartwright a
pretty good target. It feels like it anyway. The horse is just the right height
for me. I fit over it perfectly. My stomach is rested comfortable on the
leather top and with my legs spread, my bum is in just the right position. You
can’t see but my arms are half way down the back of the horse. It’s a bit
awkward because there’s nowhere to put them. There’s no handles to grip on to
so I’m clasping my hands together.
So, there you see me; head low, bottom high, waiting for the
slipper. I don’t resent being spanked. No, honestly. I get that I’m eighteen
and supposedly an adult and therefore “too old for this”, but really what’s the
school supposed to do? There are rules, everyone understands that. If you break
the rules you need to be punished. I get that; otherwise why would people stick
to the rules? There are other punishments, I suppose. If I didn’t get the
slipper, I reckon they could put me in detention, or make me write an essay or
(God forbid) lines.
No, give me the slipper any time. It’s over in seconds and
we can all get on with our lives. That is if only Mr Cartwright would get on
with it. It won’t hurt much. Really. I’m being honest with you. It’s not some
false bravado. If you’ve ever had the slipper you’d agree with me, I’m sure.
“What did I do?” did you ask? “Why am I getting a spanking?”
you want to know. Of course, in a school like this you could get corporal
punishment for any number of reasons; there are that many rules. Masters here
use two main methods: the cane and the slipper. That said, we have a Mr
McDonald, a Scotch fellow, who uses a two-tailed leather taws. No, I didn’t
know either what that was until I saw one for the first time. It’s a specially
made leather strap split into two at the business end. They’re all the rage in
schools in Scotland. You get it across the palms of the hand, mostly, but Old
McDonald sometimes gives it to you across the bum. It hurts a lot more than the
slipper, that’s for sure.
Anyway, I digress. Masters have their own preferences in
their weapons of choice. With games masters, physical ed. teachers and the like
it’s the plimsoll. It’s a tradition. Now I think about it I suppose its because
the slipper is the most easily available implement. There are no shortages of
plimsolls in a gym class.
So, it’s to be the slipper for me. What did I do to deserve
it? Sorry, I will tell you. It’s a bit embarrassing to be honest. I would ask
you to see if you could guess, but we haven’t got all day. I’m late for
dinnertime as it is. Here goes: I got caught peeping into the girls’ changing
room. I know, I know. You think I’m a perve. But, why do they leave the door
ajar if they don’t want us to look inside? I am eighteen you know and the
lasses round here don’t exactly give it away, if you get my meaning.
So I got caught. Bang to rights. In the act if you like. Red
handed. If I had been there any longer that wouldn’t have been the only part of
my body that would have been red. Sorry, that’s a bit crude isn’t it.
As I said the school has rules. I was caught red-handed, and
I was red-faced and now I’m going to be red-arsed. That’s the way it is. I’ve
got no complaints. I can feel Mr Cartwright standing behind me. He smells a bit
sweaty to be honest. I’m ready. Get on with it. It won’t hurt. Really. He’s tapping
his plimsol against my bum. Here we go. It won’t hurt. Six whacks with the slipper.
Over my shorts. It won’t hurt. Honestly.
He’s lifting the slipper away from my bum.
Crack!
“Ouch!” That hurt!
Picture credit: Sting
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