College introduces the cane
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
Parents and the public generally welcomed the new
disciplinary regime. There was talk that soon courts would be allowed to
sentence young criminals to thrashings. An on-line petition collected hundreds
of thousands of signatures for the beatings to be broadcast on television.
Sixth-form colleges catered for youngsters up to the
age of nineteen who had attended schools that did not have their own sixth
forms. The students were no different from their counterparts who still
attended school.
Downside College took the opportunity of the new spirit
in the air to introduce a dress code for students. The senior staff had wanted
to have formal uniforms, with blazers and ties, but parents baulked at the cost
of this. Instead jeans and tee-shirts were banned and male students had to wear
proper trousers, shirts with collars, ties, jackets and smart shoes. Some of
the dandies among them took to wearing sharp mohair suits, imitating the look
of the Mods from the nineteen-sixties.
Not all the students obeyed the new rules.
Ian Stranger stood head bowed. He stared intently at
the grey-patterned carpet beneath his feet. His heart raced and he was finding
it hard to catch his breath.
Mr Troughton, the college principal, sat behind his
desk. He was a youngish man, with a florid fleshy face and receding sandy hair.
He wore a formal ill-fitting chain-store suit and his crisp white shirt was wet
under the armpits, even though the room itself was quite cold.
“You know the rules about dress, Stranger.” It was a
statement rather than a question. The principal pursed his lips and pressed the
fingers of his hands together as if in prayer.
Ian continued staring. Blood was pumping so fast
through his body he feared his ears would pop.
“You were all told that if you came to college
improperly dressed you would be sent home to change. If you did it again you
would get a caning.” He spoke quietly. He had not expected a student to disobey
this rule. Why on earth would they, he thought. The dress code was hardly
onerous. Every student would have the correct clothes in their wardrobe at
home. It was no trouble to wear them.
No, Mr Troughton pondered silently, this was not about
the dress code. Stranger was deliberately flouting the rules. He thought they
shouldn’t apply to him. It was rebellion of sorts. That could not be tolerated.
He must be beaten severely. For his own good and to deter others.
Ian was eighteen years old. Soon he would pass his
A-level exams with flying colours and go on to university. He was a good, able
student. But, he was distracted.
He spent much of his time on-line seeking out videos
and stories about corporal punishment in schools. His favourites were the
stories about St
FIGS
– St Francis Independent Grammar School. They were set in the nineteen-sixties.
St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional uniforms and
traditional discipline.
He loved to read them and fantasise that he was one of
the sixth-formers in the headmaster’s study, bent over the armchair, his
trousers at his ankles, his pants at his knees, while Dr Henderson-Smith swiped
a dragon cane with considerable force across his bared buttocks.
Ian had gone so far as to get himself a pair of school
short trousers on the Internet. They were the real deal with sharp creases and
they came to just above his knees. He got long socks, a grey shirt and
old-fashioned white Y-front underpants from Marks & Spencer. He was too
scared to wear his school uniform in public, but when the rest of his family
were out of the flat he loved to dress up and play the naughty schoolboy,
bending over the back of an armchair pretending it was a headmaster’s study.
It was one of the St FIGS’ stories that gave him the
idea. The
headmaster had banned snowball fighting. The penalty for
disobedience: the cane. One eighteen-year-old chucked some snow. He was caught.
It turned out the boy had never been caned before and
this was his way of finding out what it was like.
The dress code was Ian Stranger’s snowball. Now, he
too would get his first-ever caning.
Downside was not as grand as St FIGS. Where the
grammar school had oak panelling, the college had chipboard and pine. Principal
Troughton had no academic gown or mortar-board cap. But, he had one crucial
prop: an authentic crook-handled school cane.
Principal Troughton sighed deeply as if he were
single-handedly carrying all the troubles of the rapidly changing world on his
shoulders.
“You cannot say that you were not warned, Stranger,”
he looked at the slim dark-haired boy standing before him. The teenager’s face
was scarlet and perspiration dampened his forehead. The boy must be terrified
of the beating he was about to get, Troughton thought.
The principal hauled himself from his chair and
waddled to the opposite end of the room. Ian Stranger watched in anticipation
as Troughton pulled open the drawer of a table. Ian could not see inside, but
he heard the distinctive rattle of several whippy canes as they rolled around.
Troughton was an enthusiastic supporter of the new law
on caning. He had known for years that youngsters did not know right from
wrong. Boundaries were no longer set. They were allowed to get away with
anything. They got high on drugs, vandalised the town, terrorised ordinary
descent people on the streets.
He believed in corporal punishment. He always had
done. But in the past he had remained silent. To advocate the cane would have
been career suicide. Now, public opinion had changed and Principal Troughton
was on the winning side.
He reached into the drawer and extracted a thin yellow
cane. He peered at it as if he had never seen it before, even though the weapon
in question had seen action only an hour earlier. But, this time, he thought,
it would not be up to the job. He slid it back in the drawer and fished around
until he found what he was looking for.
It was dark brown, more than three feet long and as
thick as a little finger. There were notches every three or four inches along
its length. These would cause considerable bruising to a boy’s backside and
bleeding if delivered across bared buttocks.
Principal Troughton flexed the cane between his two
hands. Despite its thickness it curved easily. Yes, he thought, he would dearly
love to put this little beauty across the teenager’s naked haunches, but (as
yet anyway) this was not allowed.
Ian Stranger watched in wonder. He had seen many
school canes in the CP videos he loved to watch, but this was the first time he
had seen one in real life. It looked awesome.
Principal Troughton swished the rod through the air
with some force. It made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went.
Ian Stranger gaped. This could take his arse off. He
had seen enough videos to know the damage a cane could do to a pair of
buttocks. But, he was not naïve; he knew the headmasters in the vids went easy
and camera angles made the canings look more severe than they really were.
Here, today, with Principal Troughton, he would
experience the real thing.
Swish! The cane flew once more across empty air.
“Stand there,” Principal Troughton pointed to a space
in the centre of the office.
Obediently, Ian moved into position.
“Face the other way. Bend over. Place the palms of our
hands on your shins. Feet apart. Knees straight.”
Principal Troughton had thrashed many students, but
none before had assumed the position so readily. Ian gripped the cotton of his denim
jeans and thrust his bottom out. In this position he had a perfect view of his
own crotch. It was beginning to bulge. It was not yet erect, but he felt it was
on the move.
The principal eyed the teenager’s backside. The jeans
fitted the boy perfectly and he had no need of a belt. They were quite thick and would give the
student some protection against the onslaught of the cane. Troughton dearly
wished he could order the rebellious teenager to lower them to his ankles.
But he could not. So, he would have to make sure each
of the six strokes (the maximum allowed) was a humdinger.
Troughton gripped Stranger’s tee-shirt and pushed it
up his back to expose several inches of bare, hairless flesh. It was not
strictly necessary to do this as the shirt was not covering the teen’s buttocks
but the principal believed it added to the drama of the occasion.
Stranger stared down at his grubby trainers. It was
not like that in the St FIGS stories he loved so much. He tried to imagine
himself dressed in immaculate school uniform, draped across Dr Henderson-Smith’s
armchair, as the headmaster readied himself to deliver an exemplary
six-of-the-best. He felt the rattan cane being tapped across the very centre of
both buttocks.
What Stranger did not see was the sweaty principal
lift the cane high and then with a swing of his hips, rather like a golfer
teeing off, he brought it down with tremendous energy into the seat of the denims.
Stranger heard the crack as the cane connected with
his backside a split-second or so before he felt it. The pain was searing. It
felt like someone had rubbed a red-hot poker across his bum. Air rushed from
his body and through his pursed lips. He did not yell, but he wheezed: again
and again and again as the agony seemed to squeeze all the breath out of his
body.
He gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly to
prevent himself from standing and jumping up and down.
“Keep perfectly still.” Principal Troughton tapped the
cane once more across Stranger’s buttocks. This time a fraction of an inch
lower than the first. Stranger screwed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth.
Troughton sucked a great gasp of air right down into his lungs, raised the cane
once more and repeated the golf swing.
Despite all his
fantasising, Stranger could not have anticipated the pain. It was a hundred
times worse than anything he had felt before. His eyes blazed and his body
began to vibrate. His cock was limp. Blood was rushing north-south, east-west,
throughout his body; but none wanted to travel to his groin.
Then the third stroke
whipped hard into his battered bottom. The pain was intense,
burning: unendurable.
The final three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep
into his tight buttocks; just where the cheeks met the thighs. Stranger could
not help it; he yelled fit to bring the walls of the office crashing down. He
clung onto his calves, fingernails biting so deep they would leave scars that
would take hours to clear.
Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, he tried to catch his breath. His heartbeat
pulsated and phlegm rose in his throat. Any second now he feared he would spew
a stream of vomit.
The intense agony which started in his buttocks travelled through his
whole body. His face and neck were as scarlet as his backside probably was.
Principal Troughton admired his handiwork. Six
tramlines were clearly visible across the seat of the jeans, all delivered in a
tight group. He was proud of his expertise. He was gaining a deserved
reputation among the students as an awesome caner.
He could see Stranger was in some distress. Troughton
could not see the teenager’s face, but he appeared to be crying. The lad’s
shoulders were certainly heaving.
Quietly, he returned the cane to its resting place in
the drawer. Then turning to Stranger he said quietly, “That’s it. It’s over.
You can stand up now.”
Slowly the student straightened. The pain was easing a
little now, but he could feel welts had risen low down across both buttocks.
They would be tender for some time to come. Sitting down might be a little
uncomfortable.
He was in control of himself now. His eyes were wet,
but no tears flowed.
He waited silently while Principal Troughton busied
himself writing details in the punishment book. He was startled at how his own
hand shook as he tried to write his signature.
Moments later he was in the street making his way to
his home. The agony had subsided into a warm throbbing and would clear completely
before he reached his council estate.
His first real-life experience of corporal punishment
was over. It had been intense, awesome, breath-taking, amazing, wonderful,
incredible. And, he could not wait to repeat it.
Picture credit: Sting
Pictures
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