Sixth-formers suffer as cane reintroduced

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

Prescott pressed his nose against the cork noticeboard, so closely dust tickled his nostrils. His fingers were entwined and his hands rested on the back of his head. He was adopting the traditional ‘naughty boy’ pose. For naughty boy he was. He might be a senior boy, nineteen years old in a few weeks’ time, but that would not stop his headmaster treating him as if he were nine.

The school uniform boys were forced to wear was part of it. A grey shirt and a grey jumper; these had been part of the school uniform for decades. All boys of whatever age would have worn them. No, what made Prescott’s appearance unusual were the grey short trousers. How could anyone be considered an adult if they were wearing school short trousers? Not leisure shorts, the black Nikes that had been fashionable among teenagers and young men for years. No, these were proper trousers. Tailored, trousers that came just above the knee. Then there were long socks, pulled up tight so that there were only a few centimetres of bare leg visible.

The uniform had been introduced last year as part of wide-ranging school reforms. Back to Basics they called it. Schoolchildren should be treated as such: children, they were not ‘young adults.’ They should learn to do as they were told and obey their elders, especially parents and teachers. And if they didn’t? Well, there was a tried and tested method from yesteryear waiting to be reintroduced.

The cane had been abolished forty years ago, but that didn’t stop the politicians calling for it to be brought back. The youth of today, they said, had no discipline, they ran wild, the country was going to the dogs. None of this was necessarily true, kids were no worse behaved now than they had been when their parents were young. But it was no use telling people that, they didn’t want to hear. They got it into their collective heads that the cane was the cure to all the ills and that was that.

Behind him in the modern office that nobody could quite get used to calling with a straight face the ‘headmaster’s study’ Prescott’s pal Hazel was standing, arms at his side staring intently at the far wall. There was nothing of great interest to see, only some pine-effect shelves with official looking folders on them. But in his present predicament he would seek any distraction from the events unfolding around him.

“Stand there boy,” the headmaster pointed the whippy cane at the centre of the room. Hazel obeyed. He had no choice. He wouldn’t argue. This was the way things were now. He could do nothing about it. The headmaster had decided Hazel and Prescott were to be caned and so Hazel and Prescott would be caned.

The headmaster had complete control and both of them knew it. The world had changed so rapidly. No one spoke of ‘human rights’ any more, and most definitely not, ‘children’s rights.’ The headmaster was prosecutor, judge and executioner.

Reluctantly, as if his legs were made of iron, the eighteen-year-old shuffled his feet to the spot indicated. He stood, heart thumping as the headmaster went through his ritual. It wasn’t enough that he should slice the cane across a boy’s backside, he had to go through a routine. The first had been to select a suitable rod from his sizeable collection. There was a special tall, narrow cupboard in the corner of the room. It had been specially built to house canes. He always made the boy to be beaten choose the weapon of execution. There was a range of canes of various lengths and thicknesses, some with the traditional curved handle, some not. Most were made of rattan but there were some dense heavy canes as well. A boy might be tempted to go for a lighter cane, believing that this would lead to a less severe punishment. It would take the boys some time, many visits to the headmaster’s study, before they learnt things were not so simple.

In the right hands a light cane could inflict intense pain. It was in the strength of the stroke. Also, there were few rules about caning. Six of the best was a thing of the past, the headmaster might well inflict nine or a dozen strokes. There was also the possibility – especially if a senior boy was involved – that the shorts would be dropped and the cane administered across buttocks stretching in tight cotton underpants. No boy was entirely sure that the headmaster was prohibited from beating a bare bottom.

Hazel had gone for a middle length, middle thickness curve handled rattan. His attempt at indifference as he reached in the cupboard and handed it to his punisher was spoiled by the rim of sweat around the collar of his shirt and the pounding heart.

Hazel had been caned before, there was hardly a boy in the sixth who hadn’t. There had been a purge against ‘slacking’ in the first term. Slacking, a rather curious old-fashioned word for laziness. For not studying hard enough. Spending too much time in the pub or clubs and not enough in the library. There was hardly a pair of buttocks in the class that hadn’t been presented across the sixth-form master’s desk.

It hadn’t been slacking, not this time. Prescott and Hazel had skipped off school early yesterday afternoon. Back in the day sixth-formers did it all the time. They had formal lessons but they didn’t last all day and there were many ‘free study’ periods. If these were the last periods of the day, the boys would often pack up their things and head home. They were, after all, young adults.

Not any more, of course. There was no such thing. These days they were ‘pupils.’ They were under the instruction of the schoolmasters. They did as they were told. The pair had no complaints, really. Mr Frogmorton, the sixth-form master, had made the new rule abundantly clear. No going home until the final bell of the afternoon. So, Prescott and Hazel not only broke the school rule, they disobeyed a senior master’s explicit instruction. What could they expect?

The headmaster was a busy man. The two in his ‘study’ this afternoon had not been the first. No one was counting (since books recording punishments were not required to be kept) but at least six others had touched their toes that day. The headmaster couldn’t be certain that there might be more knocking on his door before the day was finally over.

He was keen to get on with the matter in hand. He swished the cane through the air and in a dramatic gesture, worthy of the over-acting once seen in silent movies, he pointed the cane at a spot on the carpet. “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

There might have been a day when ‘touch your toes’ actually meant the boy reached down and keeping his knees straight he touched the tips of his shoes, thereby stretching his backside against the woollen trousers and offering up to his master two round, firm cheeks for punishment. Boys these days were not so supple, for most of them it was enough that they could bend and place their hands on their knees, so out of shape were they. Hazel wasn’t that unfit, he parted his legs and reached down and took a firm hold of his shins. In that position his bottom jutted out at an angle. It wasn’t as pleasing a sight as a ‘proper’ touch-toes position but the headmaster knew it was the best he was likely to get.

Hazel’s cheeks were flabby and even stretched they offered a large target. The headmaster had no preference, large or small; flabby or tight, he would lay his cane across any shape of bottom with tremendous vim come what may.

“Six,” he growled, although he might easily have said nine, or twelve. The number of strokes delivered was entirely up to him. Hazel let out a sigh of breath. Six. He and Prescott had discussed this as they awaited their appointment with the headmaster. “It’ll be twelve at least,” Prescott, ever the pessimist had predicted, “Six for leaving school and another six on top of that for disobeying Froggy.”

But it was to be ‘only’ six. That would be bad enough. The headmaster had developed a great deal of experience in the relatively short time since corporal punishment had been reintroduced. Six strokes soundly laid on would leave any schoolboy, however senior he might be, in sufficient pain for the lesson to last.

“Keep still,” the headmaster hissed as he began to ‘saw’ the cane across the fleshiest part of Hazel’s bottom. 

Hazel shut his eyes tight, his shoulders stiffened and he gripped his shins a little tighter. He had been caned before but previously he had been instructed to bend across a large desk flat on his stomach. That was undignified but at least gave him something to hold on to. No matter how hard the cane struck him – and it was very hard indeed – he was not obliged to keep himself in position under his own steam.

Touching toes was altogether a different proposition. Hazel feared that as soon as the first stroke cut deep into his buttocks, he would be unable to stop himself leaping to his feet and hopping up and down while at the same time clutching the seat of his short trousers with both hands.

“Right boy,” the headmaster seemed to be talking to himself as he tapped the cane across the seat of the trousers. At the wall Prescott dared disobey his headmaster and turned his head to see what was happening. He saw the headmaster, a middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and cheap Marks and Sparks trousers standing a pace or two to Hazel’s left. He gripped the cane below its curved handle and flicking his wrist slightly he wobbled the whippy cane. Then, slowly and with great deliberation he raised the cane away from the seat of the shorts and allowed it to hang in mid-air. He closed one eye, let the cane wobble some more and then brought it crashing down across Hazel’s backside. A tremendous crack of rattan connecting with cotton covered flesh resounded around the room. It took a moment for the stroke to impact; the headmaster was raising it again before the pain registered. The sound of Hazel’s whoop startled both Prescott and the headmaster. The boy stumbled forward under the impact; it was as if his shoes were sliding across the carpet. His arms spread to break his fall.

“Ah,ah,ah,ah” he puffed. “Keep still,” the headmaster barked. He had no sympathy. He had seen boys he was caning react in many different ways. Some burst into tears at the merest tap and begged for mercy (truly, this is not an exaggeration). Others jumped up and down and howled. Naturally, the headmaster preferred the boys he punished to take it without fuss. Especially his seniors. “Take it like a man,” he might have said, for after all didn’t they continually say they should be treated like adults.

Hazel settled himself. The burning pain had quickly subsided. He clutched at his shins, shut his eyes once more and pursed his lips tightly. The headmaster resumed his duty. Prescott watched on captivated at the sight. He had never seen a boy beaten before and he was fascinated by his submissive pal bending over in front of the aggressive master. Even though Hazel was in considerable distress there was nothing he could do. He had to submit to the headmaster’s will. In a few moments it would be Prescott’s turn and he was confused why the prospect of taking Hazel’s place seemed to excite him so much.

Six strokes of the cane need not necessarily be ‘six of the best’, that is to say the strokes might be no stronger than ‘love taps’ leaving no impression whatsoever on the recipient. At the other end of the scale, they could be whipped with such ferocity that even though trousers and underpants are in their correct places the flesh is bruised and welted and considerable pain is felt when sitting down for days to come.

The headmaster might be described as ‘middling’ in his punishments: that is, not so harsh, but no so mild. A boy under his cane would definitely feel the sting and there would undoubtably be marks left on the skin, but the full effects would be immediately felt. The deep burning sensation as cane strikes into flesh, but this dissolved quickly, first into a throbbing pain and then a dull ache. Within minutes of being dismissed from ‘the study’ the boy would feel nothing. Tender stripes would remain and he could reignite the pain a little by pressing his fingers into them. Many boys did indeed do this, finding the sensation of pain delivered in such a way intriguing.

“Stand up,” the headmaster commanded and red-faced and naturally red-arsed he straightened himself. He dearly wanted to rub away at his hurt but such are the rituals of a schoolboy caning this could not take place. The boy must give no sign that he had been hurt (even though he might have been yapping and yelping, wriggling and writhing during the duration of the punishment.) Hazels’ wet eyes and his pale face told the headmaster that he had indeed delivered a highly effective beating. The eighteen-year-old had felt it all right. It remained to be seen if the caning would improve Hazel’s behaviour.

He stared down at his feet ashamed to face the headmaster or his partner in crime. “Stand and face the wall. Prescott take his place,” the headmaster intoned. Sorrowfully and in some discomfort, Hazel shuffled across the room toward the noticeboard. He did not notice the slight bulge in his pal’s trousers as they passed.

“You know what to do,” the headmaster swished his cane. Butterflied flew in Prescott’s stomach, his mouth dried of all saliva the temples on the side of his head tightened. “Bend over,” the headmaster continued as if there was any doubt about his instruction. Prescott took a deep breath, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then he placed his feet about 500 centimetres apart and in one athletic movement he bent forward, keeping his knees straight he stretched down and brushed the toecaps of his shoes with his fingertips. It was a perfect position to receive a caning. He was rather proud of his ability to present himself well to the headmaster. He waited with mounting anticipation as the headmaster continued through his swishing, tapping and aiming rituals.

Tap-tap-tap. Swish! Crack!”

“Oh Boy!” Prescott felt the rush of endorphins. This was going to be better than any drug he had ever taken.

Picture credits: Sting Pictures 

 

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