A headmaster’s unusual punishment

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

Jarvis looked down at the brown-patterned rug beneath his feet conscious that his face was probably scarlet and his ears glowing pink. The headmaster was lambasting him. “You are a senior, a sixth-former and you persist in behaving as if you were ten years old.” The headmaster frowned; his exasperation knew no bounds. He was fed up to the back teeth of his senior boys acting the goat. They were eighteen and, in a week or so, they would be leaving school for good. He did not need this sort of distraction while the most important exams of the boys’ lives so far were in full swing. Well, he thought, if they insisted on behaving like silly little boys …

Jarvis had no rational response as to his behaviour and so didn’t try to offer one. The facts were easy to state. It was the end of their time at school and in a rash of hilarity things had turned into some kind of mad hatter’s tea-party. No one could explain exactly how it started but once the ball was rolling there was no stopping it.

The boys – perhaps conscious of all the responsibilities that lay ahead of them in adult life – had indeed regressed to behaving like small children. There had been the games of hopscotch in the school quadrangle, then the running and chasing through the passageways like kids playing kiss chase. Before anyone had known what was happening they had decided they were going to take it all to a new level. Parker had suggested they all turn up one day wearing grey short trousers. Everyone knew what he meant because they had all had such uniforms in their junior schools. The idea might have taken off but it wasn’t that easy to find school short trousers to fit eighteen year olds in the local shops and none of them had quite reached the point where they were willing to take scissors to the long trousers they presently wore. There would be hell to pay with irate mothers for one thing. That might be a prank to play on the final assembly on their last day at school.

It had been much easier to run to the toy shop on Brocklehurst High Street and purchase an array of toys: all of which brought back vivid memories of carefree younger days. There were peashooters which required a boy to place a bird food pellet into his mouth and blow it through a thin tube, the idea being to catch a fellow on the face or neck affording mild pain for a moment.

They quickly graduated from peashooters to water pistols. These were plastic guns which were supposed to replicate those used by aliens from outer space. The idea here was pretty straightforward; splash other people with water. By the time Cummings had got to the toyshop the water pistols had sold out so he improvised (Blue Peter would have been proud) and filled an Ola washing up liquid bottle with water and away he went.

By this time the masters at the school were irritated, they imagined the peashooter craze would quickly pass, after all how much pleasure could an almost-adult derive from this silly game. Their irritation grew to real anger when the water pistol craze was adopted by juniors at the school and most lunchtimes a number of the weaker lads were subjected to what amounted to bullying.

Matters came to a head when the first sixth-former arrived on the scene with a catapult in his back pocket. Now they really did start to resemble characters from schoolboy comics such as Dennis the Menace. These catapults – or slingshots as some called them – were capable of firing stones or other missiles at considerable speed. “You could take someone’s eye out,” Mr Hathaway scolded Jarvis when he confiscated one from him. Jarvis, who by this time had lost all sense of propriety, argued his case. “No, you couldn’t, you’d only bruise them a little bit.”

Mr Hathaway was not a man to answer back and sixth-former or not he sent a report about Jarvis to the headmaster. The head who had already himself noticed the change in the behaviour of his sixth-formers – many of them prefects, he knew aghast – and began to formulate a plan to stop the silly young blighters in their tracks.

That explained how Jarvis was standing on the rug in the headmaster’s study having his ear chewed off. “And gross impertinence to Mr Hathaway,” the headmaster was in full flow and he would not be deterred from having his say until every word he wished to speak had been spoken.

Jarvis feared the worst. A chap sent to the headmaster – junior or senior – rarely escaped unscathed. Jarvis had been a visitor twice before – but not since the fourth form – and he did not need to be told what was contained inside the narrow, tall cupboard in the far corner of the room. The headmaster believed himself to be a fair man. When he summoned a boy to him he would first lay out the charge, then hear the boy’s mitigation and then – without fail – he would take the small key to the cupboard from his trouser pocket, unlock the cabinet and extract from it one of the several whippy rods contained within. He had a cane for every occasion, for every type of offence and every age of boy. Once a boy had entered the study the only question in his mind was not whether he would be caned, but which rod would be used.

The headmaster jawed for what to Jarvis seemed like some minutes. Why won’t he just get on with it, the sixth-former asked himself. Of course, he was in no hurry for the headmaster to make his way across the study, hand in pocket, but Jarvis knew a beating was inevitable and, in those circumstances, let’s get on with it.

But the headmaster had not moved his position. He still sat behind the desk, hands folded in front of him, his steely gaze piercing Jarvis and on and on he talked. Despite his desperate situation Jarvis could not concentrate on the headmaster’s droning. School had ended for the afternoon and he was keen to be away. He and some of the boys were going to Jardine’s, a new club in town and they fervently hoped there would be girls; he had to go home to make himself presentable and it would take some hours for him to shake off his schoolboy persona and become cool club guy.

Suddenly, he was aware that silence had engulfed the room. The headmaster’s already red face was changing colour to something resembling a prune. “I said,” he repeated himself, “take that chair and put it in the middle of the room. He indicated a red, leather armless chair that rested against the wall by the window. Jarvis shook himself awake. He was familiar with the chair and the purpose to which it was often put.

Alright, he thought to himself, here we go. Six of the best and then off home. He was far from nonchalant because he knew from experience – painful experience – that a headmaster’s caning was nothing to be sniffed at; six across the seat of the trousers was something to behold. The headmaster would deposit half a dozen deep welts across Jarvis’ backside. It would hurt like billy-o, especially at the moment the whippy rattan sank deep into his stretched bottom. The headmaster was an expert with the cane – heaven knew he had enough practice – and he could inflict maximum damage with seemingly minimal effort. But Jarvis also knew that once the caning was over the agony quickly dissolved. The marks might last for days and the bruising for a bit longer but mostly the worst would be over the moment he straightened himself up from the chair. Later, he would show the other chaps his bare bottom and they would all admire the headmaster’s handiwork and congratulate Jarvis on his fortitude in such circumstances.

Jarvis took the few steps necessary to cross the room and picked up the chair, it was heavier than it looked. Meanwhile, the headmaster remained seated behind his desk.  Jarvis manhandled the chair into the centre of the room and plonked it down. “Good, now let’s get on with this,” the headmaster said and rose from his seat. Jarvis stood back respectfully to allow the headmaster to pass by on his way to the cupboard. To his surprise the headmaster sat on the chair and peered hard at the sixth-former. “Well, come on boy,” he rasped with irritation.

Jarvis stared blankly, truly unable to understand what was happening. “Come here boy, bend across my knee.” For the first time since he entered the study Jarvis was at a loss. What exactly was happening here? He couldn’t understand. The headmaster sighed, “I told you that if you insisted on behaving like an eight-year-old then that’s exactly how I would treat you.” He glared at the confused teenager standing before him, “Now, come here and bend over my knee.”

“W-w-what?” Jarvis babbled genuinely puzzled. “I don’t …” he trailed off, he had wanted to say that he didn’t get it, but in all honesty, his headmaster’s intentions were perfectly clear. Jarvis found his legs refused to allow him to move. Over the headmaster’s knee, like a naughty little boy. Being spanked in the fashion his mother used when he was indeed eight years old. “But sir,” he almost wailed. He found himself gibbering, “I’ll take a beating sir,” he burbled, “Six of the best,” and in his confusion he added, “with the cane.”

The headmaster disguised his intense satisfaction. He had assumed correctly that the boys at his school would accept to be beaten with a cane – however hard the strokes – because to them that was a manly punishment. There was a certain well-regarded ritual involved, a ceremony almost; involving the master and the boy. The boy transgressed, he knowingly broke the rules, he was found out, he was summons to the headmaster and must make restitution. There was honour involved. The master retrieved a whippy cane from the cabinet, ordered the boy to present himself for punishment, the boy duly did so and the caning commenced. Six hard strokes were the understood tariff; six of the best. The boy took his strokes without a murmur, the punishment over, he rose when instructed and, possibly after shaking the hand of his tormentor, he left the study. All was well with the world. It was what nature intended.

This over-the-knee spanking broke all the rules. There was nothing in the least manly about presenting oneself for punishment draped across the parted knees of an older man. And then what exactly? Was it the headmaster’s intention to smack the boy on the bottom with the palm of his hand. What would that achieve? It didn’t occur to Jarvis that a rational man might say that an over-the-knee spanking was by far preferable to a whipping with a cane. How could slaps on the bottom – no matter how many in number –possibly hurt a boy? The answer, of course, was that it couldn’t.

No, this was not about inflicting pain, this was about humiliation. How could Jarvis show his marks to his friends later? To begin with there would be no marks and secondly, he wouldn’t dare reveal that he had been forced to put himself over the headmaster’s knees for what amounted to a nursey-style spanking.

“I am waiting,” the headmaster said, enjoying the boy’s discomfiture. “But sir … please sir,” to his intense horror Jarvis felt himself welling up, tears were forming behind his eyes. No! he told himself he would not cry, that would heap humiliation upon humiliation.

“Bend over,” the headmaster tapped his palm against his right thigh. Jarvis stood transfixed. How was this done exactly. The headmaster, a man in his fifties was thin and muscular. The teenager studied his tormentor’s legs. The headmaster had parted his thighs to make a sort of platform for Jarvis to stretch across. The teenager was slightly taller than the headmaster and unlike that mythical eight-year-old he would not fit snugly in the traditional ‘over-the-knee’ posture.

Jarvis shuffled towards the headmaster; all the time eyes fixed on the old man’s legs. What was he supposed to do? Should he flop over his knees, as if he were diving into a swimming pool? What about pressing his hands into the headmaster’s knees and gently lowering himself, an inch at a time?

“Doh!” the headmaster misunderstood Jarvis’ hesitation for reluctance. In one smooth movement he gripped the boy by the wrist of his left hand and tugged the boy forward and downwards. His feet slipped on the rug and in seconds he found himself face down across the headmaster’s knee. Instinctively the boy balled his hands into fists and rested them against the rug. His knees were bent which allowed his feet to rest comfortably on the ground. In this position his backside was presented at an angle against the older man’s thigh.

Both the headmaster and Jarvis were entering new territory. The headmaster was surprised at how much the boy weighed. If he were to resist or struggle against the pain of the spanking the headmaster would be unable to overpower him. If he wriggled and writhed there would be a real danger that Jarvis would slither off his knees onto the floor. Instinctively, the headmaster placed his arm around the boy’s waist to steady him.

Seconds passed while the headmaster got his bearings. Many boys – senior as well as junior – had presented their backsides to him over the years but they had always been at arm’s length – or arm and a cane’s length to be more accurate. Jarvis’ present position was something quite different. This was a close-up view of a bottom and the headmaster was far from sure if he was comfortable. Jarvis was a star of the school’s rugby XV and had some muscle. His backside was broad, firm and meaty. In his present over-the-knee position the trousers were pulled tight against his backside emphasising each buttock cheek. It was, most independent observers might concur, a terrific target.

While the headmaster was contemplating the target, Jarvis lay still. At first he studied the complicated pattern on the rug inches from his face. At such close quarters he could see dust and grit – the rug was in need of a good beating (every bit as much as the boy studying it.) He felt the headmaster’s arm grip him by the waist. He had been spanked as a small boy, mainly by his mother, but he remembered little of the ritual. There had been summary spankings. A grip of the arm, a futile effort to escape, a dragging across the knee and then a series of slaps. It was all over in no time at all. Jarvis would run crying – with the humiliation as much as the pain – to his bedroom and wait for mummy to come later and tell him all was well.

The headmaster’s spanking was nothing like that. Jarvis was presented over the headmaster’s knee and the old man was taking his time (what on earth was keeping him?). He doubted there would be a frenzied series of slaps, the headmaster would ensure the spanking was delivered with some dignity (dignity at least from the headmaster’s point of view, there was no shred of dignity for Jarvis).

At last Jarvis felt a movement from the headmaster and a second later the old man’s palm landed with some force across Jarvis’s left buttock. A moment later the same happened with the right. Then, the headmaster got a rhythm going. Smack-smack-smack. Left cheek, right cheek; high, low, centre. Smack-smack-smack.

Jarvis had no experience of spanking but he knew instinctively that the headmaster was putting his all into it. Soon no part of the teenager’s cheeks was left un-smacked. Jarvis lay calmly feeling the hand connect with his trouser-covered bottom. The smacks were hard and each one generated much noise which echoed around the study. This was some spanking. But – and Jarvis could not work out how to feel about this – there was absolutely no pain. Yes, he could feel the hand slap down into his meaty bottom, but then, nothing. A single stroke of the cane would have his backside on fire and the hurt would mount across his bottom and travel up and down his legs and just as the initial shock was subsiding another stroke would land taking the pain to a new level of agony.

The headmaster was sweating now, although the room was quite cool. The exertion of slapping the sixth-former’s bottom required more energy than whacking a whippy rattan cane across a proffered backside. The headmaster now wished he had planned better. Perhaps he should have asked Mrs Jenner, the school secretary, if she had a hairbrush he might borrow. He was of thinning hair so he would have to confide in her the purpose of his request. Perhaps Sgt Blaster, the physical training instructor, had a rubber plimsoll he could donate to the cause. The sergeant was not averse to warming the backsides of the boys when he felt slacking or under-performance merited it. The headmaster might even have brought a bedroom slipper from home.

It was too late now. He had none of these implements and all he could do was slap Jarvis on the bottom with his hand. And, the headmaster was reluctant to admit to himself his own hand was probably smarting much more than the silly boy’s bottom. He paused for breath and took time to study Jarvis. The boy was still in a submissive stance, his bottom high, knees bent and legs slightly apart. It was as if he were silently saying “Here I am, spank me, see if I care. You could go on all night and I wouldn’t feel a thing.”

The headmaster tried to observe Jarvis’ face but it was turned away from him and still pointed at the floor. The boy’s eyes were tightly shut and his face was bright red. The headmaster could not tell if this represented the boy’s humiliation at being taken over the headmaster’s knee for a spanking or a natural consequence of blood rushing to his head because he was upside down.

The headmaster – nor Jarvis – had been counting the number of slaps. It could possibly have been a hundred or more. The headmaster’s hand tingled and his breathing was difficult. He would have to stop. Did this mean a defeat? Jarvis showed no signs of discomfort. The punishment had probably been a failure. Was it too late to make that journey to the corner cupboard.

The headmaster released his grip on the sixth-former’s waist. “Stand up.” Jarvis slipped off the old man’s knees and stumbled to his feet. He knew his face was aglow but other than that there was no damage. “Now, let that …” the headmaster intend to deliver a short sermon before sending the boy on his way but he was cut short.

Jarvis spoke no words but his mind raced and his thoughts tumbled. “What was the point of that? That didn’t hurt. You can spank me any day of the week. It’s better than the cane.” The boy spoke none of these words but he had expressive eyes and his face bore a look of indifference.

“What!” the headmaster yapped. “How dare you.” He had read the teenager’s mind and done so effectively. His own face coloured and a new rage built within him. Jarvis took a half-step back away from the still seated headmaster. But it was too late, the headmaster was upon him. He reached for the boy’s arm and pulled him towards him. “Well, we’ll see about that,” the headmaster could hardly control himself.

“No sir. No, please,” Jarvis has done some mindreading of his own and the headmaster’s intention was clear. The old man tugged the boy forward and in one swift move he had the boy’s belt unbuckled. The trousers were quickly opened. “No, no you can’t. You can’t.” Even in this desperate situation the boy still remembered to finish his sentence with “Sir.”

But the headmaster could and the headmaster did. The trousers flopped over Jarvis’s shoes and before he could make further protests his white cotton Y-front underpants had been hauled to his knees. Then, with renewed strength the headmaster tipped the sixth-former back over his knees.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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