Didcott in the headmaster’s study

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 It is nearly four in the afternoon. I sit and wait in my study for Didcott to arrive. The stupid boy is due for a thrashing.

A Headmaster’s Caning is intentionally awesome and is reserved for boys who commit the most heinous crimes: bullying, for instance or immorality. Or it is reserved for the recidivist; the repeat offenders, the boys who have not responded well to previous discipline.

Didcott might not appreciate it, but he is better off than his predecessors. Until quite recently a Headmaster’s Caning was always delivered across the bared buttocks. There were no exceptions. Elsewhere in the school masters are only permitted by regulations of the governors to cane a boy on his buttocks “as normally clothed.”

That meant trousers and pants, although I understand Mr Throughton, one of our sports masters, got around the rule by whacking a gym plimsoll into the stretched buttocks of his boys on the seat of their PE shorts, without the benefit of underwear. He would presumably, if tackled on the point, argue that this is how a boy is “normally clothed” during his classes.

Until recently the headmaster was entitled to use his discretion in the matter. Even the most bone-headed members of our governing body realised that I am the last line of defence against the boys. I am required to follow-up where previous punishments have failed and I must be allowed to take discipline up to another level, as it were.

So, I always thrashed on the bare. Caning a boy on his bare bottom has a number of advantages; even though the miscreant on the receiving end might not appreciate it. When I slash a cane into a boy’s naked buttocks I can judge where it has landed, since a red line immediately appears. If I am off target, I can adjust myself for cut number two and ensure it lands, as is usually intended, across the fleshiest part of the globes and not low down across the thighs.

I can also judge my pace; the weight or strength at which I deliver my canings. If I go too hard the skin on the buttocks could easily break. It is in nobody’s interest for the boy to be left bloodied and beaten. It is sufficient to be beaten; this is intended as discipline after all and not torture.

Masters who have not beaten a bared bottom might not realise the damage a whippy cane, laid on with beef, can do to a boy. Trousers and underpants are no protection against a half dozen swipes with a rattan or a dragon cane, well laid on.

I am certain that many a boy so punished has found blood seeping from his wounds when after the caning he adjourned to the lavatories to inspect the damage.

Beating a boy on the bare also adds to the occasion. I always insisted on ceremony. Cap and blazer off. Hang them on the hook on the back of my door. Then, stand in front of me and show contrition.

No boy who appears before me is unaware of my methods, so it is no surprise, when, calmly, I instruct, “Lower your trousers and underpants.”

The boy does as instructed, without histrionics. You should remember that these boys are not young first-formers accused of boyish misdemeanours; no, they are hardened criminals. Most have been beaten many times previously by form- or housemaster, they will have heard tales from others who have endured a Headmaster’s Caning: they know what to expect.

Once their trousers and underpants are at their ankles, I expect them submissively to offer me their buttocks for punishment. It may be that I ask them to go over the back of an armchair, or my desk, or to “Bend over and touch your toes.” Whatever is the instruction, they obey without question.

Then I whack six almighty stingers across their backsides. Most boys are stoical; they do not shout and holler. Perhaps, I should clarify that statement; most do show signs of pain, but no matter how much they hurt, they remain in position until I have finished my task and allow them to stand.

I know from my time at school – yes, I was a boy once; I know it is hard to believe. We are routinely beaten on the bare and I can personally testify to the intense agony caused by a thin rod whipping into buttock flesh at speed and power.

In my day, as indeed is the case with boys today, we could not stop ourselves expressing pain as the rod lashed us. Our groans and “ouchs” were clearly audible. How could anyone not make some involuntary reaction when the equivalent of a hot poker is being pressed against your backside?

We groaned, but we did not holler – and we most certainly did not blub. Boys are allowed (by masters and their fellows alike) to show pain, but they must not cry. To weep tears is a sign of weakness. Boys see these encounters with schoolmasters as tests and they will have failed if they blub. They think their punisher will be too satisfied and think they have won. Also, they would never hear the end of it if their fellows found out.

So, I used to beat on the bare. But that is all in the past now. I blame the newspapers. Not so long ago there was a case in which a schoolmaster was hauled before the courts after he beat a pupil on the bared buttocks. The boy’s father brought the action, and here’s the rub, the vile man accused the schoolmaster of “sexual assault.”

Well, the magistrate (a fine fellow and almost certainly a product of a bare-bottomed caning school) dismissed the charge. “What!,” he had exclaimed, “If this is ‘sexual assault’ then many housemasters in our public schools up and down the land would find themselves in court.”

Unfortunately, that was not an end to the matter. Pinko-liberal journalists made a fuss and soon the beating of schoolboys on their bared bottoms became a national talking point.

My governors (mostly the bone-headed ones) who knew of my preferences with the cane had what the chairman called “a little word.”

You may already have guessed what that word was: “desist.” No longer should I thrash bare flesh. Underpants, I was told, would afford the necessary modesty a boy’s parents might demand.

So, Didcott will be spared the necessity of showing me his bare bottom; but you may rest assured by the time I have finished with him he will not be able to sit down in comfort for some considerable time.

The clock on my wall reached four and right on cue I heard a modest tap on my study door. It was Didcott. The tap was so light, I wondered if the wretched boy on the other side of the heavy oak door wished I would not hear so that he could run away. When questioned later about his failure to report to my study he would be able to reply truthfully that he had attended as demanded, but received no response to his knock.

If that was Didcott’s intention, then he is an even more stupid boy than I already imagined.

I cleared my throat and imperiously called, “Enter!”

There was a considerable pause. Had the impertinent boy run away already? No, slowly I watched as the brass handle turned and the heavy door inched open. There was a pregnant pause before Didcott, E. M. C., fourth-form pupil of St Godolph’s School, shuffled into the room.

He stood on the threshold of the study, unsure what was expected of him.

“Close the door boy and come and stand in front of my desk.” Unnecessarily, as my desk was in front of him, I waved my arm to give him directions.

With some effort he pushed the huge door shut and moving at a pace that would disgrace a snail, he stood where indicated.

I waited patiently for him to position himself. I was in no hurry, I am something of an expert in these matters and I know that a boy up before me is dreading the ordeal. So, I let him wait; I leave him to stew, as it were.

I studied the wretched schoolboy who stood before me, hands behind his back, eyes downcast at the rug beneath his feet.

He was fourteen years old and probably about five-feet-four-inches tall. He had a clear, open, fresh face and a smallish button nose, all of which was topped by fairish hair. He would soon break a few hearts; if he were not already doing so among the sixth-formers at the school.

I have to say, he was extremely well turned out. He had made an effort with his school uniform. He wore the distinctive blazer of St Godolph’s. Nobody else in the entire world could get this blazer. It was cut from especially made cloth in wide red and dark blue stripes, with a narrower yellow stripe running between the two. On the breast pocket was the school crest; a design based on a castle’s portcullis. All four buttons on the blazer were fastened.

Underneath the blazer he wore a maroon jumper with white braiding around the V-neck, which covered a white shirt with a red tie emblazoned with the school crest tightly knotted at his throat

Atop his head, he wore a red cap; again emblazoned with the school crest.

He wore light grey short trousers, tucked in at the waist without the aid of a belt. The short trousers, which to my experienced eye were certainly tailor-made, came to an inch above his knee.

I could see on his left knee there was a scab; perhaps the aftermath of a sporting accident. Below the knee and pulled up tightly over his calves, long grey socks with red and blue hoops completed his ensemble. He was so smartly dressed he could have been a poster boy for the school.

The room was so silent that the ticking of the clock was clearly audible. Tick, tock, tick tock. I waited, adding considerably to the drama, until the second crawled its way to numeral twelve, before I began my interrogation.

“Well Didcott, why are you here?”

I knew the answer already, of course, having been forewarned by his Latin master Mr Albertson, but I always insisted that a boy when sent to my study for punishment should relate his sins; accept his wrongdoing and then offer himself to me for chastisement.

“Mr Albertson sent me, sir,” it was almost a whisper. Didcottt’s head was bowed so low his chin rested on his throat.

“Speak up boy! I can’t hear you,” I barked. “Look at me when you speak to me!”

Sorrowfully, he raised his head; but only by an inch or so. Anxiety was etched on his handsome face. A thin line of moisture had appeared above his top lip, making a sort of liquid moustache.

“Mr Albertson sent me,” he said but hardly any louder than before. This was some ordeal for the worthless boy.

I knew the story already. He had disrupted his Latin class, not once; not twice, but now three times. After the second time, his housemaster administered six-of-the-best across the fourteen-year-old’s backside. But, clearly it was not enough. This time he is due a Headmaster’s Caning.

“What did you do?” My anger, a little forced to be honest, was apparent.

The boy’s pink face flushed a little and once again he stared at the carpet.

“I was messing about in class,” he croaked, almost inaudibly. There was a silence and then hurriedly, he added, “Sir.”

“Messing about! Messing about!” I can be a bit of a ham actor at times. “What kind of phrase is that? Kindly use the King’s English when you speak to me!”

Didcott’s face was now scarlet.

“Tell me exactly what you did!”

“I cried out ‘ouch!’ sir.”

There was a pause and when it became obvious he was not going to continue with his explanation, I forced the issue.

“It wasn’t my fault sir,” he gabbled. “It was Tomk…” then he quickly corrected himself, anxious not to get a fellow pupil into trouble with the headmaster. “It was another boy sir. He pinched me and I cried ‘ouch’.” He trailed off, even he realised this was an extremely lame excuse.

Knowing the history of this particular boy and his antics in Latin classes, I was able to state with some confidence. “This was not the first time you had interrupted the class today, was it boy?”

He sucked in his cheeks and held the position for a few moments while he tried to find an answer that might just save him from a caning.

He failed. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he admitted his crime.

Boys can be cruel creatures and if they think they have a weak master they will certainly take advantage of the wretched man. Mr Albertson was such a man. He was still young and very enthusiastic about his work, but he had no presence in the schoolroom. Boys ran rings around him.

They devised any number of pranks to unsettle the poor man. This time it was the well-worn ruler trick. As Alberston faced the blackboard to write, every boy in unison tapped a ruler against the underside of his desk. The sound was amplified by the hollow wooden interiors of the desks. Of course, as soon as the master looked around at the class they stopped. He saw a roomful of angels writing down every word he had written.

The prank was as old as the hills, but the boys must not be allowed to get away with it. School is a battlefield between the boys and the masters. Albertson needs to learn how to apply a rattan cane with extreme vigour across the seat of a boy’s trousers. If he did that once or twice in class it would halt this nonsense forever. And he would stop wasting my time.

I jawed Didcott at considerable length about his behaviour; the need to concentrate on his studies; why he should not stop other boys who are trying to learn; and much more besides.

The stupid boy made no response. All I could see was the top of his school cap; his head was bowed so low. I don’t know if he was feeling contrition, but he would soon feel the sting of my cane.

Without warning I rose from my desk. That got the boy’s attention and his eyes followed my progress across the study. It is quite a large room. There are two horsehair arm chairs arranged around a small table and a second desk which I use to write at in one corner. At present there are two straight-backed wooden chairs with padded cushions arranged close to my main desk for visitors. These chairs are of a perfect height for senior boys to stretch across on my command to receive thrashings.

Didcott is not yet tall enough to reach across these chairs. He could however fit well across the arm of one of the horsehair chairs. His face would sink deep into the seat cushion and his legs would stretch perfectly behind him and his bottom resting at an angle over the arm.

The study was completed by rows of bookshelves and cupboards that ran the length of two walls. A third wall was dominated by an open fireplace; not yet lit, but it contained the ashes of wood that had burnt last evening.

A huge window dominated the wall behind my desk.

I felt Didcott’s eyes burning the back of my head as I strode purposefully to the row of cupboards. One was taller and thinner than the others and I made this my destination. Didcott had never before been inside my study, but he needed little imagination to guess what was contained therein.

I delved into my trouser pocket, found a ring with a number of keys, located the correct one and with some ceremony I unlocked the door and opened it. I deliberately stood back at this moment to afford Didcott a sight of its contents.

The expression on his face turned from one of anxiety to horror. Inside the cupboard was an array of punishment sticks. I keep seven canes of assorted lengths and thicknesses here. There is a further supply in the school storeroom to replace these should any of them break against the backsides of my boys.

I reached in the cupboard and selected a specimen that might do to punish this disobedient boy. It was a traditional rattan cane, a little more than three-feet in length with a curved handle. It was very thin and typically might be used to slash a boy across the palms of his hands. It was too feeble to use across a fourteen-year-old’s backside.

Nonetheless, I flexed it between my hands, demonstrating to Didcott the extreme whippyness of the rod. I tested it by swishing it through the air three times and then replaced it. Didcott’s eyes widened when I pulled out cane number two.

This was a dragon cane and very suitable for older boys who have returned for repeat punishments. It was a deep yellow and very dense. It was only slightly thicker than the rattan I had previously rejected, but I knew this darling would pack a punch to suit any headmaster.

My attempts to intimidate Didcott worked. Once again I swished the cane through the open air to demonstrate its power. Even at a distance across the room I could tell the boy’s eyes were watering. His fear of this thrashing was intense.

I tutted to myself, as if to indicate to the wretched boy, “No, this will not do,” and I replaced the cane in the cupboard.

I picked out a third rod. In truth this was almost identical to the one I had just seemingly rejected. But, it gave me the opportunity for more practice swishing to demonstrate what a wickedly supple rod it was. Satisfied that this would be the cane to whip Didcott, I turned to face him and pointing it almost in his face I wobbled it.

“Yes,” I intoned, as a magistrate about to sentence a youth to a birching might, “this should deliver the correction you so sorely need.”

Didcott visibly buckled at the knees. He clasped his hands behind his back, trying in vain to hide from me that he was shaking like a leaf.

I closed the cupboard and returned to my desk. I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the window. Oh dear, I thought, I look every one of the sixty-two years that I am. My pate is balding and what hair I have grows in tufts and at present is sticking out on both sides of my head. A trip to the barber-shop seems long overdue.

My face is round, florid and fleshy. I have a double and quite possibly a triple-chin. My round spectacles rest on my pointed nose at an angle, looking as if they might topple off and slide down my face at any moment.

I am certainly a portly gentleman. My waistcoat is bulging against my rotund stomach and for comfort I have to leave the lowermost three buttons unfastened. My black-and-grey-striped trousers are generously cut and are wide at the waist. They are held up by braces and I know that when I release them from my shoulders my trousers are apt to immediately fall down to my ankles, rather like those of a clown at a circus.

I have a black-and-white bow tie that today has not been tied very expertly and hangs beneath my flabby chins at a crooked angle. It helps to hold in place my wing collar. My colleagues are apt to wear the new modern soft collars that come already attached to their shirts; but I am a little “old school” in my habits and have yet to make that change.

I am not wearing a jacket, but instead I have a black academic gown hanging from my shoulders. I do not wear my mortar-board cap in the study and that is at present resting on my desk.

“Come boy!” I bark across the room at Didcott, “Let’s have no further delay.”

The boy is a picture of misery. His once pink and then scarlet face is now a deathly pale. He knows that he must now atone for his misbehaviour.

“Take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the hook on my door.” It is a calm instruction.

Silently and in extreme misery, Didcott walks the two or three steps he needs to take him to the door. His breathing is heavy, but he has resolved to go through this ordeal with the minimum of fuss. He will not let himself down in front of his punisher.

I watch intently as the boy takes his cap from his head, reaches up to the hook and leaves it there. Then slowly and with fumbling fingers he unfastens each of the three buttons on his fancy school blazer and hangs it with his cap.

As he stretches to reach the hook I see muscles in his back ripple beneath his jumper. I had not noticed before but the boy must be some athlete. He is lean and he is strong. I notice his buttocks are firm and how his short trousers cling to the contours of his cheeks.

It only takes him seconds and he is standing once again in front of my desk. I rise from my chair and holding the cane with which I am about to beat the boy in one hand I swish it in the direction of the middle of the room, indicating where I want the fourth-former to stand.

“Face that way,” I swipe the cane through the air, demonstrating my intent to deliver to Didcott the most exemplary thrashing.

The boy’s breathing is heavier still and the shaking in his body is uncontrollable, but he obeys my instruction.

Once in position, I deliver the order that strikes terror into the heart of any boy. “Lower your trousers, bend over, and touch your toes.”

He shot me a look that implored me not to do this to him. He would do anything to avoid this; he would promise me the world and then somewhat if only I would not beat him across his underpants.

But, boys about to receive corporal punishment will promise anything to avoid the thrashing they richly deserve.

To emphasise my contempt, I swiped the cane through the air and repeated my command. “Trousers down. Bend over.”

There was no going back. There would be no clemency. No mercy. Didcott was a serial offender; he was a thoroughly disobedient boy. He must, and he would, suffer the consequence of his actions.

He reached for the waist of his grey short trousers, undid them and let them slip down his hips. They nestled at his thighs so he spread his legs a little to loosen them enough so they slid slowly down past his knees and shins and rested in a puddle at his feet.

Then, he closed his eyes tight, bent forward and rested the palms of his hands on his knees.

The target he presented was suitable for a thrashing, but it was not what I had demanded.

Swipe! I swished the cane close to his body; he would have felt the wind rush against his naked legs as it passed on its way. “I said touch your toes boy, now get on with it.”

He shuddered and reached down further. He opened his legs so that his feet were two feet apart and stretched his fingertips so they rested on the toes of his highly-polished black leather shoes.

I always make a boy wait before commencing a beating. It gives him time to contemplate his crimes and to anticipate the intense agony he would feel once the cane flogged into his buttocks.

I rested the cane on my desk and with both hands I slowly and neatly folded up, first his jumper and then his shirt, so that there was about three inches of bare flesh above the top of his underpants. Of course, I could have achieved the same effect if I had simply grabbed the jumper and shirt and dragged it away from the target area, but I believe my way adds considerably to the drama of the occasion.

Didcott was, naturally, wearing white cotton underpants. His body shook when I gently took hold of the waistband. I believe he feared I was going to lower them to his knees so that I might thrash my cane across his naked cheeks.

Given my head, I would have gladly done that, but even a headmaster must obey the instructions of the school’s governing body, so rather than pull his underpants down, I pulled them up a little tighter, removing any creases in the cloth.

Didcott’s buttocks were firm and round. My little manoeuvre lifted and separated each cheek, and displayed a canyon of a crack.

When a boy touches his toes for a caning, inevitably his bottom becomes taut. Some schoolmasters would say too taut. If, like Didcott’s, the bottom is especially pert, the area of the buttocks on display might be quite small indeed, when compared to having the boy across a desk or a chair perhaps.

I believe having a relatively small area at which to aim is an advantage. It means one can bring down each successive stroke of the cane on more or less the same spot, magnifying the agony many fold as the stick lands on top of a previously-delivered cut.

I positioned myself on the far side of the bending boy and planted my feet a little way apart for balance. Reaching out with the cane in my right hand I ensured that I was the correct distance away from my target and gently tapped the tip of the cane in the centre of his left cheek. His whole body tensed and his buttocks clenched in anticipation of the first slash connecting with his bottom.

“Relax, boy, relax,” I said as I continued tapping with my rod. He either could not, or would not, unclench his buttocks. Pah! I thought and raised the cane about four feet from the target area and brought it crashing down across the very centre of both cheeks.

The cane sank into what little flesh Didcott had on his posterior, but before it could properly bounce off, the wretched boy had jumped into the air; both feet clear of the carpet. Wailing like a banshee, he shot bold upright and with both hands held his buttocks tight while he jumped up and down on the spot. Tears filled his eyes.

Suddenly, he realised what he had done. It is a mistake for a boy to stand up or in any other way try to inhibit a master from delivering a beating. I had not specified this would happen, but a boy expects extra strokes if he does this.

Without my instruction, he immediately bent forward and resumed his position touching his toes. I rather admired the boy for his fortitude.

I had not yet decided whether to increase his tariff of strokes. I would wait to see how he took stroke number two. I tapped his bottom once more and could see my previous stroke had left a distinct line across the seat of his underpants. I aimed for the same spot and let fly again.

Didcott flew into the air; this time not only clutching his bottom, but bending over double, tucking his elbows into his stomach. His agony must have been terrific. Once again he danced around like a Red Indian in a B-movie Western.  Tears watered his face and snot dribbled from his rather attractive button nose.

I realised at this point that I had made a tactical mistake. It was clear the boy was unable to present himself stoically for a thrashing whilst touching his toes. I should have instructed him to bend across the chair or my desk, so that he had something to cling onto for dear life while I administered the caning.

But, all was not lost. “Didcott,” I intoned, “take yourself across my desk.”

The miserable boy was in so much distress, he could not obey my order. I will give him the benefit of the doubt that in his state he could not, rather than he decided he would not, obey my order.

I was losing patience with the boy. I threw my cane onto a nearby armchair and grabbed the wretch by the scruff of the neck and man-handled him forward. He tripped over his short trousers, which despite all his dancing around, were still covering his shoes. He stepped out of them as I dragged him the three or four paces to my desk.

Then I placed my hand in the small of his back and pushed him forward so that he fell across the oak desk, face down. I was surprised that even through his shirt and woollen jumper I could feel that his back was drenched in sweat.

I was myself breathing heavily from the exertion of this little battle. The boy lay heaving across the desktop, tears coming in great gulps. He was, quite literally, a beaten boy, but he made no effort to remove himself from this prone position.

“It is best if you reach your hands forward and hold onto the far end of the desk.” I hoped he would be able to comply with my instruction and take his punishment like a man. I feared I might have to summon Jenkinson, the school’s head boy, to assist me by holding Didcott in position while I completed my task.

Didcott did his best to follow my advice, but after resting first his left cheek and then his right cheek on the desk top, he managed to find a position whereby he could rest in some comfort. His bottom was now resting over one edge, raised at an angle to receive the caning with his groin pressing hard into the desk. Both hands held on for dear life to the other edge.

I repeated my ritual of carefully folding up his shirt and jumper away from the target area and smoothed down the cotton cloth of his underpants. I had not noticed before, but the boy was almost entirely hairless on his legs and his back. This was unusual for a fourteen-year-old boy, but I might have been mistaken; it could be that his hairs were so blond in colour that they appeared invisible. My eyesight is not what it once was.

I retrieved my cane from the armchair and took up position. Now that Didcott’s movements were no longer restricted by the short trousers at his ankles, I felt able to tap the inside of his thighs with my cane to encourage him to spread his legs wide. This increased my target area considerably.

The boy was sobbing gently and seemed to have regained some composure. I hoped we could conclude this thrashing with the minimum of fuss.

“Your behaviour so far this evening has been far from what is expected from a boy,” I swished my cane through the air as I gruffly lectured the boy. “Therefore, we shall start at the beginning. Six more to go!”

There was just time for Didcott to screw up his face in response to that dreadful news before I raised the cane once more and brought it down across his underpants.

His buttocks squirmed, his entire body juddered, his legs flailed about and a piercing howl raged from his throat. But, he held on manfully. His breath was leaving cloudy patches on the surface of the desk.

His backside vibrated vigorously as I raised the cane high and slashed it again into the white cotton. The result was another piercing scream and his buttocks gyrated with the impact. For a moment he released his grip on the desk and seemed about to stand and treat me to another merry dance, but in a split-second he regained some control and resumed his hold on the desk so tightly I could see his knuckles were turning white.

Another stroke whipped across Didcott’s tight round curves. It was a hell of an ordeal for the boy. He was yelling; frantically writhing and twisting, but he stayed there.         

I continued to deliver the cane full force slicing each of the next two strokes lower and lower down his buttocks.

There was one final stroke to deliver. A Headmaster’s Caning must be awesome and I always ensured that my beatings fitted the bill. I adjusted my position slightly so that I no longer aimed across the centre of the buttocks from left to right. Now, my aim was from the lower left corner and diagonally across the buttocks to the top right. In this way my final swipe would cut across all previous five cuts, reigniting the pain already caused into an intense agony. After such a six-of-the-best a boy would later upon the traditional inspection discover a pattern rather like a five-bar gate emblazoned across his backside. Of course, with Didcott this would be a seven-bar gate, if such a thing actually existed.

So, with accuracy and timing born out of years of experience and practice the cane rose one last time to shoulder height. It descended without warning and landed with an enormous crack. Almost immediately I could see small drops of blood had seeped into the boy’s white underpants, where cuts had formed. A long angry hiss of air whistled through Didcott’s clenched teeth. His body rose several inches from the top of the desk, but he held on. His torso flailed from left to right and for a while it looked as if he were attempting the crawl stroke at swimming. He was gasping to suck air into his lungs, rather like a fish out of water struggling for survival.

He banged his head up and down against the shiny surface of the wooden desk and I could see his tears or his sweat, or conceivably both, had left a puddle of water behind.

“Thank you Didcott. You may get up.” I watched intently. I could not be certain that in his present state the boy had heard my instruction. But he had; only his brain took some time to react. Wheezing, still trying to fill his lungs, he eased himself up from the desk, his hands shooting to his seat. He winced the moment his fingers connected with his scorched flesh and he hurriedly withdrew them. As previously, he performed a Geronimo dance.

“Stand and face the bookshelf,” we had not quite finished yet.

Miserably, he shuffled across my study, but he was in so much agony he found it difficult to perform this simple task. If he was unable to walk properly, I supposed, he would not be sitting down for some considerable time to come. Good. That was the entire point of this exercise: to deliver an exemplary punishment.

“Place your hands on your head.”

His once bright open face was deathly pale and soaked in tears and snot. Dutifully, he put his hands on his head, raising his arms conveniently lifting his shirt and jumper exposing his buttocks to my gaze. The underpants had crumpled a little and I could clearly see the results of my endeavours. The lower parts of his buttock cheeks were crossed with welts and a small section of his underpants had turned from white to a pale pink.

I left the boy standing facing the bookshelf for some moments. He had regained some composure and appeared to be breathing normally. I returned to my desk, opened one of its many drawers and fished out the punishment record book. I knew the wretched Didcott was anxious to be on his way, so I took my time entering the details of the boy’s offence and the resultant thrashing he had received.

Finally, I spoke. “Turn and face me Didcott.” He did so, still with his hands firmly on his head. Seeing him from the front I was able to observe that he had a thick red line across his stomach, where he had been resting (if resting is the correct word in the circumstances) across my desk. The impact of my caning must have forced the boy’s stomach hard against the wooden edge of the desk.

“I hope Didcott that you have learned your lesson,” I intoned. I did not expect an answer and so did not wait for one. I continued, “I do not want to see you again in my study. But if I do, next time you will be punished more severely. Do you understand Didcott?”

That time I did expect a response and I was rewarded with a faint, “Yes, Sir.”

That would have to suffice. “Get dressed Didcott.”

The boy was better able to move and rushed to collect his short trousers from the floor where they had been discarded earlier. He crunched up his face in considerable pain as he bent down to retrieve them causing the flesh in his bottom to tighten. I watched impassively as he stepped into his trousers and pulled them up. Again, he winced with pain as the material of his shorts rubbed against his raw and scorched buttocks.

Once buttoned up, he walked across the study to the door and reached up to retrieve his blazer.

“Tuck your shirt in Didcott!”

“Oh, sorry sir.”

Even this act reignited the pain in the sorrowful boy’s bottom. Eventually after some sucking in of his lips, the task was completed.  Then he reached for the blazer, slipped it on and finally placed the school cap on his head.

He fastened all four buttons of the blazer and once again was the pinnacle of sartorial elegance he had been when minutes earlier he had arrived at my study.

He was astonished when I extended my hand in expectation of another part of this ritual.

Instinctively, he mumbled, “Thank you, Sir”, before he shuffled through the door to make his escape, back along the cold passageway to the lavatories to meet his friends and collectively they would examine the damage.

 

Picture credit: Mancspank and CP Services, London

 

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