The Prank That Went Wrong

  Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

It was a sunny and warm day in June, and the two sixth-formers were fidgety. The final exams were over and in a few days they would be leaving St Tom’s forever.

There wasn’t much to do but the rules insisted they continue to attend school. Baxter and Simmons were not sporting types so the cricket pitch held no attractions for them.

They say the Devil finds work for idle hands and the two eighteen-year-olds were restless. They were great pals and had been since the day they both arrived at St Tom’s, an elite public boarding school in the English countryside. Simmons who was academic and would make a successful career in the British Civil Service was a natural leader. Baxter was an idle boy and a bit dim-witted. He was often in trouble with masters at the school and was no stranger to the inside of the headmaster’s study.

Naturally, it was Simmons who thought of the prank. Mr Harris, the history teacher was a strict man and much disliked by the boys at St Tom’s. His lessons were boring and often boys would doze off in class while the master droned on and on. Unsurprisingly, because the history master was also a bit of a bully, when he discovered a boy daydreaming, he would call him to the front of the class. A swishy, curve-handled rattan cane was kept dangling from the blackboard and Mr Harris would not hesitate to demand a boy ‘touch toes’ while he swiped two or three hard strokes across a proffered stretched backside.

‘Let’s play a trick,’ Simmons chortled. Although he was an intelligent young man he could sometimes act like a silly little boy. So that afternoon, the eighteen-year-old suddenly became twelve again.

‘Let’s sneak into the classroom,’ he giggled. Baxter, although not sure what his pal intended readily agreed. The door was unlocked and by now most of the boys were out playing cricket or on the athletics track. The coast would be clear.

‘Here,’ Simmons laughed as he stood in front of the blackboard. ‘Let’s steal his cane.’ He reached up and wriggled it off a hook. Turning to his pal he flexed the rattan rod in his hands. Although he had felt the sting of the cane across his backside many times – St Tom’s was that kind of school – this was the first time he had handled one. He was surprised how light it felt. Surely, he thought, something so lightweight couldn’t inflict so much pain. He turned to his pal and swished the cane through the air.

‘Bend over Baxter, touch your toes,’ he imitated the gruff voice of the history master. ‘It’s six-of-the-best for you m’boy!’

Baxter blanched, ‘Give over,’ he whined, ‘That’s not funny.’

But Simmons would not be deterred and he flexed the cane and swiped it through the air. Then he tapped it across the backside of his pal who was standing next to him. ‘You’re a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing boy,’ he intoned still imitating the history master. ‘A sound thrashing should wake up your ideas a bit.’

Baxter wriggled away and noticing several sticks of chalk nearby. He picked one up and to distract his pal he began writing on the blackboard. ‘Harris is mean,’ he wrote and looked to his pal for his approval.

‘Oh, come on man,’ Simmons guffawed, ‘is that the best you can do?’ Then taking up a piece of chalk himself he amended the words to read, ‘Harris is a mean sod.’

The two boys fell about in fits of giggles; their twelve-year-old selves surfacing.

Baxter who was no intellect but a good artist set about sketching a caricature of Mr Harris. ‘There’s his ugly face,’ he drew with confidence. ‘And there’s his mortar-board and his gown,’ he drew quickly and assuredly, ‘and, here’s his cane.’ Within seconds the sketch was complete, a demonic schoolmaster with glaringly mad eyes brandishing a cane.

‘Now, draw a boy,’ Simmons encouraged him, ‘Bending over. Trousers down. Pants too. Getting it on the bare,’ he said, the words tumbling from his mouth.

Eager to please his pal, Baxter set about the task, both boys almost doubling over with heaps of laughter.

They were enjoying themselves so much they didn’t hear the door to the classroom open. ‘What the …!’ an astonished voice boomed. The pair froze, they had not yet seen the figure standing in the doorway but the voice was unmistakable.

‘What the …!’ the voice repeated. Simmons was first to swing on his heels to face the direction of the voice. Baxter was slower off the mark. When he too turned, he was so astonished that he let the chalk slip from his fingers to the floor.

The headmaster peered at them with a stern expression, ‘Never in my life …’ he began, but was lost for words. He was a bit of a ham and boys at the school said he liked the sound of his own voice but now he truly was lost for words. He stared at the caricature drawn on the blackboard and at the rude words.

“Well, Baxter, Simmons,’ he intoned, ‘explain yourselves.’

Neither boy could. ‘It was just a joke sir,’ Simmons began, but as the words formed in his brain, he realized that nothing he said would get them out of the hole they had dug for themselves.

‘Joke!’ the headmaster exploded. ‘I see nothing amusing about this disgusting drawing.’ Simmons looked at Baxter’s handiwork hoping that he might find a shred of artistic merit, something that might convince the headmaster that this was something other than the disgraceful insult that it was.

The headmaster glared at the two sixth-formers, ‘You have insulted your teacher and disgraced your school. You have shown no respect or manners.’ Then, he saw the cane that Simmons had left on the schoolmaster’s desk, ‘You deserve to be punished severely,’

He snatched up the cane and, just as Simmons had done minutes earlier, he flexed it between his hands. It was a light cane, not much longer than three feet and thin. He had stouter canes in his study that were more suitable for use of senior boys.

He looked closely at the cane in his hand. No, he thought, there was no need to adjourn to his study, he could deal with the matter right away, there in the classroom. He looked across at the drawing of Mr Harris on the blackboard and most closely at the boy bent over trousers and underwear down offering up his bare bottom to the cane.

‘Yes,’ the headmaster murmured, almost to himself, ‘a jolly good idea.’ He swished the cane once more and pointed it at the master’s desk. ‘You first, I think Baxter, since you are the artist.’ Baxter stood, heart pounding, staring into the headmaster’s blazing eyes. Baxter had been caned before but something he couldn’t quite explain told him that this time it would be much worse.

‘Stand by the desk,’ he wobbled the cane, ‘Simmons, face the blackboard.’

It was a hot afternoon and what little air that was in the room seemed to be sucked out. Miserably, he shuffled towards the desk. ‘Take off your blazer.’ Baxter could not get his fingers that had moments previously flown across the blackboard creating the masterpiece drawing, to work. He fumbled with the buttons and with some difficultly slipped the blazer from his shoulders. ‘Put it on the desk.’ Baxter let the jacket fall.

Time drags so that it practically stands still when you are about to get a headmaster’s beating. The silence in the room was oppressive. The headmaster flexed the cane, he was waiting deliberately for the tension to build. Like so many schoolmasters he was a ham actor. Eventually, he broke the tension. ‘Lower your trousers and take down your underpants.’

Simmons who was facing the blackboard swung on his heels to face the headmaster, ‘What .. no sir .. no sir ...’ he bleated.

‘Silence,’ the headmaster thundered. ‘Do as I say, this instance. I have never before encountered such insolence in a pupil. If you weren’t due to leave the school in the next few days I should certainly have expelled the two of you.’ He paused to make sure the import of his words was fully understood, ‘But not before administering an exemplary thrashing.’

Baxter stood bewildered. This couldn’t be happening. It was just a nightmare, a fever dream. In a moment he would wake up and be in the sixth-form dorm ready to face another typical, boring day at St Tom’s.

‘I’m waiting Baxter,’ the headmaster growled. ‘Trousers and underpants down.’

If he had had a problem removing his blazer that was nothing to the challenge of trying to unbuckle a belt and undo his button fly with frozen fingers. The headmaster stood irritably watching the eighteen-year-old fumble about. At last, the front of the trousers was open, and with the weight of the cigarette packet and coins in his pocket and the law of gravity they slipped down his thighs and puddled over his shoes at his feet. Baxter stared ahead at the far wall, not really focusing on anything. He was not in a dream but he might have been in a trance.

‘Underpants,’ the headmaster drooled. Baxter, now not consciously in control of his body, slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his white cotton Y-fronts and with a flick eased them down over his buttocks and left them tangled at his knees.

‘Bend over.’ This was not the first time Baxter had been across a desk and although he stood at 5 ft 10 ins and was probably too tall to be in this position he was able to lay his body across the desktop. He parted his legs so that his buttocks were raised slightly over the desk’s edge. He stretched his arms and gripped the far end of the desk. He could not see himself but his buttocks were perfectly positioned to receive the headmaster’s thrashing.

The headmaster believed himself to be a fair man, but the pupils of the school had other opinions. He was stern and a strict disciplinarian. He believed in the effectiveness of corporal punishment and hardly a day went by without him swishing his cane across the buttocks of some wretched schoolboy. It mattered not a jot to the headmaster whether the boy was the youngest junior or the most senior boy at the school. He treated them all the same. That was what he meant by fairness.

He was a man who believed in duty with an almost Biblical fervour and it was his duty to punish Baxter and Simmons. He gripped the cane and moved so that he stood a little to the sixth-former’s left. The buttocks, almost hairless, quivered in anticipation. The headmaster sawed the cane across the plumpest part of the cheeks and then with a gentle tap-tap-tap he found his aim. Satisfied, he lifted the cane high, let it wobble in the air for a moment before slicing it down with tremendous force across meaty flesh. Almost immediately a red line appeared across the centre of the buttocks. It took a moment longer before the pain registered and Baxter let out a tremendous howl that could be heard across the school’s quadrangle and almost at the porter’s lodge by the gate.

Baxter’s legs kicked, his hips swivelled and he pushed his face down hard into his now folded arms. It needed a super human effort to stop him leaping from the table and even with trousers at his ankles and pants at the knees dashing from the room.

The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. Even after only one stroke the bottom was throbbing. He took aim again, touching the cane on Baxter’s backside an inch or so below the first cut. He felt deep satisfaction when he saw the boy’s body flinch with terror. The cane rose and fell again delivering a stripe exactly parallel to the first. The headmaster had a terrific aim; and he ought to have for the practice he had.

The cane rose and fell six times and by the time he had finished Baxter’s buttocks were glowing red. Welts were rising but no blood had been spilled. Baxter had lost all breath and lay gasping like some stranded seal on a beach. His backside burned like the fires of Hell and his bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. He was blinded by tears and his head ached almost as much as his ravaged bottom.

‘Stand. Get dressed,’ the headmaster spoke softly but sternly. The boy pulled himself to his feet but stumbled badly when he reached down to pull up his pants. The pain reignited as the cotton Y-fronts caressed his beaten buttocks. He had to hold onto the desk to steady himself before he could pull his trousers up.

‘Stand there,’ the headmaster pointed the cane to the blackboard. ‘Simmons, take his place.’ Sorrowfully, the boy manoeuvred towards the desk when he reached it he halted.

‘You know what to do boy,’ the headmaster barked, ‘Get on with it.’

Trying to fake the bravery he did not feel, Simmons reached down to his belt.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

SOURCE

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