A Dreamlike Quality

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

Dexter stands by the door just inside the headteacher’s office. It is not his first visit but still he looks around to get his bearings. It is nothing like the headmasters’ studies he enjoys reading about in the books. There are no mullioned windows, no open fireplace, no huge walnut desk, no armchairs. There are no sounds of cricket being played on the pitches adjacent to the building

This is not an elite public school as featured in Billy Bunter stories and the ilk. This is not the 1930s, it’s 1972 and he is in a medium sized functional office in a concrete and glass bog-standard Comprehensive in a small town. The pine-effect desk is cluttered with manilla-covered documents. A metal filing cabinet sits in one corner opposite a beaten wooden cupboard. There are two almost-broken down wooden straight-backed chairs on one side of the desk behind which a harassed looking middle aged man peers at Dexter despondently.

“You again,” he sighs taking the spectacles from his beaklike nose and pinching the bridge. He looks like he has a headache. “I thought we had sorted this out,” he continues. Dexter abashed looks down at the floor. The industrial strength carpet is threadbare in places. He lets the head drone on. “You think the rules don’t apply to you; well, they do.” The head doesn’t have to remind Dexter that he is in the Upper Sixth and should be setting an example to the younger boys, they went through this on the last visit. Dexter doesn’t try to remind the head that he is eighteen years old and considers himself to be an adult.

The head sighs deeply and hauls himself to his feet. He can practically reach over and open the cupboard door without walking. Dexter watches him reach inside and when his hand re-emerges, he is clutching a very worn plimsoll. At least it had at one time been a gym slipper but now with age much of the canvas sides have perished leaving behind only a shiny rubber sole. This plimsoll hadn’t been used for its original purpose in generations. Instead, it had in recent years found a new use.

Dexter watches the head as he brushes by his desk taking care not to knock any of the open folders to the floor. He picks up one of the chairs by the back and carefully places it in the middle of the room and it covers one of the threadbare patches. Dexter clutches his hands behind his back. He has a good idea what is about to happen. Within seconds he will be bent across the back of the chair to offer up his backside to that slipper.

Dexter is an average pupil in many senses of the word. He is intelligent and if he could be bothered (or interested enough) he could do well in the forthcoming exams. As it is he doesn’t work and is destined to get C-grades which is exactly half way between the available A to E pass grades. He is neither tall nor small, standing at 5 ft 7 ins and he is unlikely to grow more than an inch by the time he attains full adulthood. He is wearing black trousers, a white shirt and a plain maroon tie. He is neither fat nor thin. His hair is neither too long nor too short. His face is nondescript. He looks like thousands of other school pupils across the land.

He doesn’t realise that his two thumbs are now kneading the seat of his trousers as if they are trying to prepare him for what is about to happen. Dexter has never been slippered before. Nor, has he been caned. His very averageness has allowed him to travel through more than six years at the school without causing any disruption. It is only the doings of the new over-zealous Head of Sixth Form that has got him to this situation. Dexter has been arriving at school late in the mornings and leaving the premises at lunchtime. Twice in recent weeks he has been caught behind the bike sheds smoking a cigarette. Dexter has no mitigation; he is guilty as charged. He knows this, the head knows this and so matters must take their course.

Dexter is bemused when the head sits himself down on the chair and wriggles his own ample buttocks to get some comfort on the small, hard seat. When he is ready, he snaps his fingers at a space a foot or so to his right. “Stand there,” he says in a strong confident voice. A little unsure about what is going on Dexter nonetheless does as he is told. He is now standing over the head and able to observe him at close quarters. He is in his fifties with a balding dome. His skin is greasy and lined. He wears beige polyester slacks and a white nylon shirt which is buttoned at the neck and both wrists. His tie bares the hallmarks of food stains. A faint aroma, a mixture of cigarettes and coal tar soap hangs over him. He wrings what is left of the plimsoll in his right hand.

“Take down your trousers,” he orders. Dexter, perhaps stunned by this turn of events stands rigidly. He doesn’t know what to say and so remains silent. The head takes a deep breath and speaks with an even tone, “Don’t make a fuss. Take down your trousers.  Just let them fall to your feet.” Still, Dexter doesn’t know what to say. The head’s intentions are clear and Dexter wonders why he cannot get his fingers to obey him. “Please don’t make me have to do it for you,” the head, still speaks evenly, almost as if he were not actually present in the room.

The head looks at Dexter and cannot hide the weariness he feels. He doesn’t need this hassle. There are piles of files on his desk that need his attention. It is not easy being the headteacher of a medium-sized comprehensive school. He’ll be lucky if he gets away much before eight-thirty this evening. When he gets home his wife will give him an earful again.

Dexter is too young and inexperienced in the world to read the head’s expression but miraculously his fingers are once again able to work. He is wearing a plastic belt although he is outgrowing his trousers and doesn’t really need it. He unbuckles it and then sets to at the button on the waistband and the metal zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and with the weight of the penknife and the keys in his pockets and the effects of gravity they slip down to puddle on top of the shiny black ‘wet-look’ shoes he wears.

Mission accomplished he stands, his hands now clasped in front of his pants-covered privates, he awaits further instructions. They come quickly, “Bend over my lap.” The head spreads his knees to create a platform. Dexter looks down at the thighs encased in polyester and the head’s belly that folds over his belt. “Don’t make a fuss,” the head repeats and reaches out to take Dexter’s left wrist. He tugs the eighteen-year-old forward and Dexter topples across the older man’s knees. He reaches out quickly to break his fall and finds himself face down with his nose a couple of inches from the floor. The palms of his hands are resting flat on the carpet. He feels the head grip him around the waist so that he doesn’t slither off his knees onto the carpet. He cannot see himself but Dexter imagines that he is now in a perfect position to receive his spanking. His shoulders are low, his legs and feet are dangling in mid-air and his belly is firmly against the head’s thighs. Dexter’s cotton-covered bottom is presented at an angle of about 45 degrees.

The head rests the plimsoll on Dexter’s back and says, “Don’t make a fuss,” and then he takes hold of the elasticated waist of Dexter’s white, cotton Y-front underpants and tugs them. It takes a couple of pulls before the underpants are clear of Dexter’s buttocks and the head has a view of two round, fleshy cheeks. Dexter is so mortified he is unable to speak, not even to protest the indignity, no the humiliation, of his present position. He is now bent across the head’s knee with his trousers at the ankles and the underpants at the thighs and his bare bottom pointing at the ceiling. This never happens in the stories in the comics.

“Don’t make a fuss,” the head says and picks up the plimsoll in his right fist and takes a firmer hold of Dexter’s middle with his own left arm. The sixth-former is now pinioned face down, bottom bared for a spanking. “I am going to give you twelve whacks,” the head says matter-of-factly. “Then you will be released.” He doesn’t say the words again but he is still trying to ensure that Dexter doesn’t make a fuss. Let’s just get this done is what he wants to say.

Dexter feels the worn rubber sole tap gently across the fleshiest part of his left cheek. Then the same happens to the right one. He doesn’t know it but the head is taking his aim, getting himself ready. Then without warning the slipper is lifted away. And then WHAM! The head crashes three hard whacks across the top half of Dexter’s left cheek. Then he puts another three on the lower half. It sounds like machinegun fire in the smallish office. Dexter gasps, the pain is excruciating. The head might have pressed his mother’s smoothing iron into his backside.

Dexter has no time to yap, yell or howl. The head is a man on a mission. He aims the plimsoll on the top half of the right cheek and brings it down three times in quick succession. Dexter is wriggling now and his bottom is a blaze. He never expected this. Is this what a spanking feels like? He can hardly catch breath as another three hit the lower part of his bum. Twelve whacks. Efficiently delivered and all over in about fifteen seconds.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Dexter climbs to his feet, the Y-fronts around his knees make him stumble but he manages not to fall to the floor. He tugs up his pants while at the same time trying to rub away the hurt pounding his backside. He reaches down to his trousers quickly he pulls them up.

“Take a moment to compose yourself,” the head says gently. “Tuck your shirt in.” Dexter does as he is told. “Let’s not have to do this again.” There is a pause, Dexter is not sure what do. Is he expected to reply? The head looks flustered. “You should go now.” Dexter mumbles something that might be “Thank you, sir,” and he leaves to find two younger boys outside the office waiting their turn.

 

Dexter had this fantasy many times during his late teens. It comforted his lonely nights. Nothing even remotely like this was going to happen in real life. Although the cane was still legal its use was diminishing and had been banned in his rather progressive school for many years.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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