The mass pillow fight

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

(A St. Francis Independent Grammar School story)

The first-formers are on a school field trip, so naturally there’s a pillow fight in the dormitory. But where are the two senior boys who are supposed to be their supervisors?

 

John Allison packed his suitcase. He was ready. Three days and three nights away from home alone with twenty eleven-year-old boys and a doddery schoolmaster. What could possibly go wrong?

It was the annual St Francis Independent Grammar School nature fieldtrip for the first-formers. John was to be an assistant master. That’s what he liked to call it; but St Francis said he was an assistant to the schoolmaster, which was not quite the same thing. He had not been keen at first. He was not a particularly virtuous sixth-former, nor was he one to volunteer for anything readily, but his father told him this sort of thing looked good on university applications, so here he was.

He was surprised to find that Andy Wilson had also signed up for the ride. Wilson liked to think of himself as a rebel. He knew St Francis was a ‘fascist state’ and he longed for the downfall of capitalism. Things were a bit tense at home; his father, a police superintendent in the local force, was becoming rather irritated with his son’s posturing: “What do we want! A Workers’ state! When do we want it! Now!” A few days away from home would do both of them good.

…

Mr Duggan was furious; when he got his hands on Allison and Wilson he’d give them a taste of his slipper.

Mr Duggan was old and tired and he did not want to be stuck in the middle of the country with twenty brats on a nature trip. The boys were from the town, they didn’t see an open field from one day to the next, but now in the glorious open Surrey Downs they were like prisoners let loose.

Perhaps it wasn’t their fault, after all they were boisterous boys, Mr Duggan conceded to himself. But, Allison and Wilson were a different matter. No masters had wanted to come on this trip to supervise the kids, so the school had roped in the two eighteen-year-olds. So, with twenty boys safely tucked up in bed, Mr Duggan left the two teenagers in charge and went to find himself a quiet spot where he could smoke his pipe and read the newspaper in peace.

Thirty minutes later, Mr Duggan’s ears pricked up. He could distinctly hear the noise of a riot coming from the dormitory. He tried to ignore it, after all Allison and Wilson were on hand to deal with any problems.

But, the noise didn’t die down; in fact it got worse. Exasperated, Mr Duggan put down his paper and went to see what the fuss was.

He found twenty eleven-year-olds, all out of bed, engaged in a mass pillow fight: the boys in the beds on one side of the dorm against the boys across the aisle. Allison and Wilson were nowhere to be seen.

Mr Duggan threw on the light and yelled, “Stop! At once!” To his surprise (and immense relief) they did.

“Stand by your beds. Every one of you!” Again, obedience.

The dormitory was spartan: all it contained were twenty beds with iron bedsteads: ten along one wall and the other ten on the wall opposite. Each bed had a small wooden locker beside it.

The boys lined up at the foot of their beds as instructed. Mr Duggan’s heart wasn’t in it, but he went through the motions and tore them off a strip. They were hooligans, a disgrace to the school. What would their mothers say? Even as he was berating them, he had sympathy for their situation. They were Townies put in an environment that was novel and exciting, who wouldn’t expect them to be a bit lively. And, bedtime here was nine o’clock; Mr Duggan doubted these lads were in bed at such an early hour at home.

So it was no surprise they had found a rowdy way to consume their energy. It wasn’t altogether their fault: if Allison and Wilson had done their job properly the little riot would have been nipped in the bud and Mr Duggan would by now be snoozing over his newspaper.

But, things had gone too far and Mr Duggan knew he had to take action: the kids would expect it and his authority would be shattered irreconcilably if he did not.

He stepped out of his bedroom slippers, bent down, picked one up and squeezed it tightly in his right hand.

“Everybody turn round and face the bed.” The boys immediately understood they were going to be slippered. Corporal punishment was a constant in these boys’ lives, there wasn’t a bottom in the dormitory that hadn’t been assaulted at least once in the past couple of months.

The cane and the gym shoe were regularly used as punishments at St Francis and most of their parents had a favourite tool they used to discipline their sons. Townsend’s father used a leather riding crop, although where on Earth he got that from in the town was anyone’s guess. Kenwood’s mother still took him across her knee to deliver hand spankings on his bare bottom. This worried the boy somewhat; not that he got it on the bare, but that he was still punished by his mum; all his friends were considered big enough to get whacked by their dads.

“Bend over the end of your bed and stay there until I give permission for you to get up.”

Almost in total unison, the boys bent forward at the hips and rested their stomachs across the cold iron bedstead. Some boys buried their faces in their folded arms while others chose to stretch out across the itchy grey blankets.

Mr Duggan surveyed the scene. Before him he had twenty pairs of buttocks, submissively waiting the attention of his slipper.

Wait till I get my hands on those two, he thought, as he set about his marathon spanking session.

Mr Duggan was methodical. He started at the end of the dormitory and made his way down the line, delivering one hard Smack!!! to the left cheek and another to the right, before moving on to the next boy, leaving each eleven-year-old with a smarting bottom.

Although he had some sympathy with the boys, Mr Duggan made sure that each wallop with his slipper hit home hard enough to leave marks. If he was to be forced to go through this ritual, then it should have some effect.

Reaching the end of the first row, Mr Duggan paused and surveyed his handiwork. Ten boys still lay submissively across their beds, their buttocks glowing. Although, he knew they were in some pain, none of the boys showed any outward emotion: they were hardened punishment-takers, even at their tender age.

Mr Duggan crossed the aisle to the next row of waiting boys. Each boy lay, his bottom raised for correction, each of them faking unconcern, while inwardly dreading the impending sting of the slipper.

With his task completed, Mr Duggan ordered the boys to stand up. He was a little taken aback to see how red some of the boys’ faces were. One or two of them furtively held their hands behind their back so they could explore with their thumbs the damage done to their buttocks.

Mr Duggan lectured them some more, threatened them with dire consequences if he were disturbed again, and sent them to bed. The silence that night was only broken by the sound of twenty boys’ rhythmic breathing.

It was nearly an hour later (and Mr Duggan’s temper had not lessened) when Allison and Wilson appeared. They were wearing heavy coats and it was obvious they had been outside somewhere.

Mr Duggan could smell it on their breath: they had been drinking. Unconcerned, the boys voluntarily admitted they had been to the pub in the village and the landlord had served them readily. Both boys regularly visited pubs back home (as did most youngsters their age) and didn’t think their trip that evening was unusual. They had only had one pint of lager each, before returning.

Mr Duggan went ballistic: this was so typical of teenagers today; they thought they were adults when they were not. They did not become adults until they reached twenty-one. They were children and they should behave like children. They could start by respecting their elders and betters and doing what they were told.

It was their fault, he told them, that the boys had rioted. It was their fault that he had been forced to spank each and every one of the boys with his slipper.

The old man might not have believed it, but both boys inwardly accepted that he was right. They had been selfish and deserted their post without any concern about the consequences. But, they couldn’t give a damn about the kids and their smarting bottoms: that was their own fault; nobody forced them to have a mass pillow fight.

The teenagers did not say any of this to Mr Duggan. John Allison was a bit ashamed and too embarrassed to admit it to his teacher (or to Wilson). Wilson despised Duggan for being old and for being a schoolmaster and for being rubbish at it. It wasn’t his fault Duggan couldn’t control the kids: the pathetic old man.

Mr Duggan had a plan, but he didn’t tell the two eighteen-year-olds what it was. He told them to get cleaned up and be ready for bed within fifteen minutes and he would see them in their room.

At the appointed time Mr Duggan entered their room without knocking. In his hand he held a heavy wooden clothes brush. He was surprised at what he saw. Wilson, the tough guy, was dressed in old-fashioned blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, tied at the waist with a white cord. Allison wore pyjamas fashioned, Mr Duggan supposed, on a karate uniform, with black bottoms in a silk-like material and a gold coloured top that slipped over his head.

“It is entirely your fault that I had to punish twenty boys tonight. You were irresponsible and look what happened as a result.”

John Allison had the good grace to blush a little, but Andy Wilson looked on impassively, as if he could give a damn!

“So I am going to have to punish you in the same way.” With that Mr Duggan pulled a wooden chair away from the wall, sat down and brandishing his clothes brush in the air, said, “You first Allison, bend over my knee.”

John blushed deep red. He gaped. The schoolmaster was going to spank his bottom. With a wooden brush like he was eight years old. What kind of school was this? He knew the answer to that, of course. He had only recently joined St Francis from a progressive school. St Francis was not that. It was traditional establishment: traditional curriculum, traditional religion, traditional sports and traditional discipline. And that meant corporal punishment.

Deeply embarrassed, he hesitated for a moment. He was eighteen years old. He had never been spanked in his life and he didn’t see why he should start at his age. Why should he submit himself to the old man? Why should he prostrate himself across the chubby man’s legs and offer up his backside so the schoolmaster could whack his clothes brush into it at force? It was absurd. What would happen if his mother and father found out?

John may have wronged, but he didn’t think that meant he should be spanked like one of the eleven-year-old boys now sleeping peacefully in the dormitory. Maybe he should refuse to be punished.

But, the dark shadow of Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster of St Francis Independent Grammar School, hung like a shadow over John’s shoulder. If the good doctor heard about his pub visit and also that he refused to be punished by Mr Duggan the flogging he would deliver would be awesome. Of that there could be no doubt.

So, John did what generations of St Francis schoolboys had done before him. He decided to take his punishment safe in the knowledge that the consequences of not doing so would be much worse.

But, how exactly was this done? He had never been spanked in his life and he had never seen anyone get a spanking. He knew he had to go over the schoolmaster’s legs; that was clear enough. But how? Should he throw himself across, like he was diving into a swimming pool? Or was it better to rest his hands on the old man’s right knee and gently lower himself over?

Mr Duggan misread John’s indecision. “Pah!” he exclaimed and grabbed the teenager by the left arm and with more strength than John could imagine the schoolmaster might possess he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

Andy Wilson took a step backwards to be out of the way, thereby giving himself a perfect view of his friend’s backside.

John’s pyjama jacket had ridden up his back displaying an area of his hairless back. Involuntarily, the boy shivered in the chill of the winter’s night. He was staring at the worn wooden floorboards, his nose only an inch or so above the knot-holes. To steady himself he spread his arms about three feet apart and pressed the palms of his hands into the floor. Behind him his feet were on tip toe and his buttocks rested over the top of Mr Duggan’s right thigh. The schoolmaster was squat and his legs were encased with fat, which provided a padded cushion for John to rest his body on.

John Allison had no idea how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he silently resolved he would take this without fuss. He would not show himself up in front of his friend Andy; and in a typical schoolboy’s defiance of authority, he would not let his master know he was hurt.

Mr Duggan tugged at the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms so that the silk-like fabric tugged up between the boy’s buttocks like a wedgie. Unhappily John realised his breathing was uneven; even before the whacking had begun. He scrunched up his eyes in preparation of the first blow. He took a deep breath. No matter how much this hurt, he would not show it.

Then Smack! smack! smack! three slaps in quick succession crashed into John’s left buttock. “Sisss … sisss … sisss …” he hissed and his eyes shone. It hurt so much more than he expected. He could feel his eyes moisten. He must not cry. He moved his left palm and placed it over the back of his right hand to steady himself for the next whacks that were soon on their way.

Smack! smack! smack! three on the centre of the right  buttock. John’s face was bright red and he struggled to hold back the yelps he desperately wanted to make. The alarmed look on his face betrayed the pain he felt. He was relieved that Andy was standing behind him and couldn’t see how hurt he was.

Another three came crashing down on the left cheek and another three on the right. John was startled to find his fingernails digging deep into the flesh of his hand. He gasped at the shocking pain that was travelling from his sturdy buttocks up and down the back of his legs.

Mr Duggan gripped the prostrate boy tightly at the waist and in a flurry landed another dozen hard whacks of the brush across the teenager’s backside. Not a square inch was left untoasted; from the tops of the globes across the crown and into the very tenderest under-curves where the bum meets the thighs. If the old schoolmaster had not held the boy so firmly across his knees John Allison would have leapt up and fled the room.

Then it was over. Twenty-four whacks with the brush. John Allison, aged eighteen, sixth-former at St Francis, had survived his first-ever spanking. His backside was scorched, but he had taken it. Like so many schoolboys before him, he was rather proud of himself as unsteadily he lifted himself off the old schoolmaster’s knees and stood up.

Wilson looked on with mounting anger as his friend took his punishment. It hadn’t hurt at all: Duggan couldn’t even spank an arse properly; the pathetic old man!

John Allison’s face was scarlet red (as were his buttock cheeks as he would later discover) but he wasn’t showing that he was in pain.

“You next, Wilson!”

Andy hadn’t planned it, but he stepped forward, untied the drawstring at the waist and let his pyjama bottoms fall to his feet. Then he threw himself across the old man’s lap. Before Mr Duggan had time to react, Wilson had wriggled himself into position raising his bare backside high as if to greet the clothes brush as it made its journey into his bum cheeks. His entire posture cried out: “Go on! Give it your best shot! See if I care! You won’t hurt me! You pathetic old man!”

Mr Duggan was furious. He knew Wilson’s little game. If he wanted a fight, he would get one. The brush crashed down into Wilson’s naked bottom, hard and at speed. Six whacks one after another with no let up. He might be an old man, Mr Duggan thought, but he still had the strength to teach this young pup a lesson he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

Andy Wilson hissed as the wooden brush rose and fell and rose and fell. To his shame, involuntarily, his legs kicked out, as if to resist the hot bare-bottomed spanking. Smack! smack! smack!

On and on Mr Duggan spanked hard down into Wilson’s raised cheeks. The boy was in agony, he could scarcely breathe with the pain. He wanted to scream out, to beg Mr Duggan to stop the assault on his poor savaged bottom, but his pride would not allow him to do it.

Mr Duggan was losing control of his breathing and was perspiring heavily as on and on and on he spanked his brush into Andy’s wriggling buttocks. At that moment Mr Duggan hated this boy more than he had ever hated a living being before. Bang! Bang! Bang! the sound of the wood crashing into Wilson’s naked backside echoed around the room, and surely could be heard all over the site.

John Allison stared on in disbelief as his friend’s bare bottom was torn apart by Mr Duggan. His own spanking had been agony enough, he thought, as he caressed the seat of his pyjamas and he had only received two dozen whacks, pyjama- bottoms up. He had struggled to remain silent as the aching from the spanking shot from his buttocks down his legs and eventually through his whole body. Mr Duggan was an expert spanker.

Suddenly, it looked like Mr Duggan might be about to have a heart attack. He gasped for air, out of control, and unintentionally relaxed his grip on Wilson. The boy took advantage and broke free and scrambled off Mr Duggan’s lap.

The old man wheezed and coughed, gradually regaining control. Wilson hauled himself to his knees, then to his feet, and pulling his pyjamas up as he did so, he fled from the room. Mr Duggan, still wheezing shuffled out the door, leaving John Allison alone. Gingerly, the teenager pulled down his pyjama bottoms, exposing his buttocks. They were a deep shade of pink and many outlines of the huge brush were clearly visible.

Jesus H Christ, John silently cursed as he gently touched his throbbing buttocks. I’m eighteen years old and spanked for the very first time. He pulled his pyjamas up and jumped face down on his bed. What kind of school was this? Who allowed such things to happen? He buried his face in his pillow to hide his humiliation. But, he consoled himself, there were only a few more months to go before he was rid of this place forever and nothing like this would ever happen again.

Or so he thought.

Picture credit: CP4Men.

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