James in the Headmaster’s study

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

Much of the study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece above an unlit fire were small silver trophies and above them a framed portrait of the King whose face imposed itself upon the room.

In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared. An upholstery armchair that looked more in place in a suburban sitting room was to the left of the desk and to the right French windows.

Behind the desk and on full view to any visitor (and not only misbehaving schoolboys) was a wooden case. It might have been originally designed to hold trophies but the headmaster had put it to an entirely different use. It contained three pliable rattan canes, each with the regulation curved handle. The shortest one was at the bottom. It was perhaps two-and-a-half feet long and very thin. This was the junior cane. It was most often used on first offenders, and usually on the hands. The other two were the same length – more than a yard – but the top one was much thicker and knobbed in places. It was frightful, and was used on the senior boys.

Anthony James was eighteen-years old and at 5ft. 7ins. he was a little shorter than his contemporaries. He had black hair, cut short (as did all the boys at the school) and eager blue eyes. He had muscular legs and firm buttocks as befitting a middle-distance runner. There was not enough fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. He was dressed in the regulation uniform of grey woollen pullover, grey shirt. Mid-grey trousers clung to the contours of his thighs and bottom.

Dr Hall, the headmaster, had an imposing presence, standing at 6ft. 4ins. and weighing nearly 16 stone; he still had many of the characteristics of the county rugby player he had once been. Despite the fine summer evening the headmaster was dressed in full regalia with a heavy academic gown over formal grey suit. A mortar-board cap covered his thinning hair.  He had been in charge of the school for five years and all the boys and most of the staff were in awe of him. The sight of him with a cane in his hand berating a boy was terrifying.

Not daring to look at the headmaster, James gazed out the window at gracious buildings and willow trees that must have been more than a century old. He could not see but he heard the sound of boys playing cricket on a green oval.

The headmaster stepped across to the rack and took the stoutest of the crook-handled canes which he swished experimentally through the air with a loud whop.  Solemnly he turned to survey James with hot, bright eyes, gripping the cane in both hands and flexing the rod into a quivering arc. Although this served no practical purpose, it did make boys gulp when they saw its wicked hint of pain. The headmaster put the cane down on his desk where James could see it clearly and contemplate it.

James had been there before – many times. He could have found his way to the headmaster’s study blindfolded. At the height of his rebelliousness, throughout the whole of the 5th year, he had emerged from that study with a blazing backside. Trousers up, trousers down his buttocks had vibrated to the impact of the Head’s cane, which had the ability to reach the parts of a boy’s backside which other masters’ canes could not.

The headmaster nodded toward the armchair. “Turn it around.” The back of the chair faced the wall and in this position was of no use to the headmaster. James gripped one arm and made the chair swivel until its position was reversed. The task completed, he paused for a moment and not for the first time recognised that the back of the chair afforded the perfect platform for a naughty boy to present himself for punishment.

The headmaster had a ritual. He liked to make a speech. He did this every time although the words were more properly directed at a boy facing his first caning. “I shall give you twelve strokes,” he intoned. “They will hurt. They will hurt very much indeed. You may shout as loud as you like. You may cry. Do not ask me to stop. You may want to bring your hands round to protect your backside, but I do not advise it as I shall have to repeat the stroke. You will feel like jumping up, but you will not do so. It will mean an extra stroke.”

James had heard it all before. A little piece of him resented having to listen to the instructions. When in the past had he done anything but offered his backside for punishment in the required manner? When had he tried to stop the cane lashing his cheeks? When had he done anything other than take his punishment like a man?

“Stand behand the chair,” the headmaster pointed as if there was any doubt about what he meant. James shuffled into position. “Take down your trousers, Bend over the chair.” The instruction had been expected but James’ fingers still trembled and he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. Once he had the top button of his flies open his trousers slid quickly down his thighs and puddled over his shoes. He took a deep breath and leaned forward over the chair.

“Right over,” the headmaster growled and James lifted his stomach and stretched his arms forward to grab the far end of the seat cushion. The muscles in his bottom firmed and his white cotton underpants stretched across the flesh. “Feet apart.” James obeyed and spread his feet as far as they could go but the trousers at his ankles restricted movement.

“Why am I still wearing underpants?” he wondered to himself. Wasn’t a senior always caned on the bare? As if in answer to his question the headmaster walked behind the eighteen-year-old and gently stroked the seat of his underpants. Without speaking, the headmaster with both hands took hold of the underpants at the sides and with one firm tug slipped them down to James’ knees, baring his bottom and upper thighs. Then, he rolled his shirt and pullover clear of the bottom.

The Head saw the backside he was about to beat already had six faint blue lines evenly spaced from the top of the crack to the fold of the crease. He traced the lines with his cane. “Who did this?” he growled. They were the marks of an expert caner and the headmaster grudgingly admired the handiwork. “My housemaster,” James spoke to the seat of the cushion, unsure if he was allowed to turn and face the headmaster’s questions. “What for?” the Head snapped. “Slacking ….” James replied. Slacking covered any number of sins; in this case the boy had done particularly badly in a history test.

“Hurrumph!” the headmaster coughed. He retrieved the cane from his desk. He flexed it in his hands. He swiped it a couple of times through the air. Then, to add to the drama he ran the cold cane over the entire surface of James’ bare buttocks. Straddled over the back of the armchair James felt very exposed. He stared down at the chair, his fingers embedded in the thick cushion. He felt the cane being drawn over his buttocks and resting on the apex of his neat round cheeks. He tensed slightly, gritted his teeth and anticipated the inevitable biting sting. Time stands still for a boy being caned. The world outside ceases to exist. James focused on the seat cushion, slightly indented with the bottoms of guests and gazed on by so many boys in his position.

Then without warning the Head lifted the cane away at arms’ length and delivered a very forceful cut that sent James lurching further over the chair, his feet stamped the ground and his buttocks quivered under the impact.

The Head ran the end of the cane several times over the lower contours of James’ bottom before landing the second cut across the crown of the buttocks. The cane bit and stung and the thick rattan penetrate deeper into his flesh. Already two double-edged welts were forming.

Having established two lines which raged across the boy’s backside, the cane began to invoke an entire chorus, as stroke after stroke added more and more lines in every available unmarked part of the buttocks. The thwacks sounded like pistol shots. James stifled the “arrggghhhhhhh” that his agonised body demanded he make. His fist shot into his mouth and he bit so deeply that teeth marks would be visible for hours to come.

At carefully chosen intervals, the Head delivered further strokes, landing each one with skillful accuracy on fresh bands of unmarked flesh. James struggled to retain his prone position but his legs and buttocks were out of his control and his feet stomped up and down on the carpet like some demented soldier on sentry duty. The headmaster waited between each stroke, quietly satisfied at the sight of the boy’s bottom dancing over the back if the chair and his legs performing gymnastics.

As he delivered each well-aimed stroke, the sixth-former’s involuntary movements became more and more exaggerated, accompanied by a chorus of muted cries which rose in pitch and volume. The Head paced every stroke to achieve maximum effect, both by its timing and its accuracy.

As James lay, prone across the back of the chair, his buttocks raged with pain, he longed to move his hands to give himself some slight comfort and relief from the unrelenting pain, but the headmaster’s promise of extra strokes stopped him from doing so.

The headmaster was magnificent. Each stroke of the cane was precisely placed creating a tidy set of straight lines of clearly burning wheals. After the twelfth and final stoke, James’ bottom was striped with a neatness and precision that could not be denied.

“That’s over,” the headmaster declared. “Stand up. Get dressed.” James’ sentence executed; the boy stood up. He desperately wanted to massage his backside, but the rituals of a schoolboy caning did not permit this; it would have to wait until he was on the other side of the study door. Gingerly he eased his underpants up over his buttocks. It felt like they had swelled to twice their natural size. The trousers were soon in place. The agony was subsiding a little into intense pain. Before long that would ease to a rhythmic throbbing. It would be difficult to sit comfortably for some time to come. The welts might stay for days at least; the bruises remaining for weeks.

Once James was dressed, the headmaster with the cane held across both hands, handed it to the boy with a degree of reverence and told him to replace it in the rack with the others. That task completed the headmaster offered his outstretched hand which the senior shook solemnly.

In agony, James hobbled from the study. Outside three remaining boys patted his back and he walked down the passageway, his hands firmly clutching his buttocks now tightly encased in the school grey trousers. Every step was an agony as the fire continued to rage. He was so engrossed in himself he failed to hear the door open and then close as the next boy took his place in the headmaster’s study.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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