Smoke Signals

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

It was a bitterly cold autumn morning but the chill didn’t stop Henderson and Peters from hiding out at the bike sheds during lunchtime for a crafty smoke.

Their thin blazers and very short trousers were no defence against the chill and light drizzle. They were eighteen, and senior boys, but they had both been ‘put back into short trousers’ the previous term. This was a ploy of their new headmaster who believed that if senior boys did not behave with maturity they would lose privileges and be treated like juniors. That meant dressing like the juniors as well.

Henderson and Peters huddled together, puffing away, and sharing their grievances against the school and the new headmaster Dr. Thompson. What they didn’t know, but should have guessed, because this wasn’t their first trip to the bike shed, smoke signals were snaking their way into the crisp autumn air.

The pair had barely taken a few drags when the ominous figure of Mr. Hargreaves, the strict and unforgiving mathematics teacher, appeared like a spectre out of the thinning mist. The ever-present whippy cane was tucked under his arm. His sharp eyes narrowed as he spotted the culprits, and his voice boomed through the cold air. ‘What do we have here, gentlemen?’ he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The master’s eyes bore into theirs, his disapproval palpable. He slipped the rattan cane from under his arm into his hand, ready to meet out instant justice. Then, he hesitated. Henderson and Peters were recidivists, repeat offenders, they were constantly breaking the rules. Mr. Hargreaves had intended to give each lad three or four cuts of the cane across the hand, but, he reckoned, malevolently, that the sixth-formers continual breaking of the rules warranted a stiffer punishment.

‘Follow me,’ he ordered, turning on his heel and heading back towards the main building. The boys exchanged glances before reluctantly trailing behind him. The short journey felt like an eternity, each step heavier than the last. They knew what awaited them at the end of this walk: the headmaster's study.

It was a dimly lit room decked with leather-bound books, polished wood furniture, and stern portraits of former headmasters. ‘Stand there,’ Mr. Hargreaves growled, pointing to a spot in front of the headmaster’s enormous mahogany desk. The two boys shuffled into position.

The headmaster, Dr. Thompson, a man in his sixties with a stern countenance and a reputation for upholding discipline, entered the room with a deliberate pace. His eyes, framed by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, regarded the two boys disapprovingly.

He waited with mounting displeasure while Mr. Hargreaves filled him in on the morning’s activities.

‘Thank you, Mr. Hargreaves,’ the headmaster said sternly peering through his spectacles. ‘You have done the right thing bringing this pair to me. I shall take the matter from here. You may return to your duties.’

Mr. Hargreaves left, trying without total success to hide the disappointment he felt that he wouldn’t be witnessing the punishment of the two boys who he had learnt through bitter experience to detest.

‘Henderson and Peters,’ the headmaster began, his voice a mixture of disappointment and authority, ‘Smoking is strictly forbidden on school property,’ he intoned, his voice like thunder. ‘And you both have shown a blatant disregard for the rules and for the reputation of this school.’

The headmaster, like many of his breed throughout the country rather liked the sound of his own voice. He lectured when words were largely unnecessary. The boys had been caught smoking; smoking was against the rules and rule-breaking was punished. Everyone; boys, parents, masters, knew that to be true. Here were two rule breakers and all that was necessary was to get on with the job.

Dr. Thompson had more to say on the matter. His word, though possibly eloquently expressed, largely fell on deaf ears. Henderson and Peters listened with distain. They loathed the headmaster and they didn’t think any better about the school. They would have happily left school two years previously to go into the exciting world of work but for their parents who had ambitions of university and professional careers for their sons.

The boys were no strangers to the discipline of the school; they had been up before the new beak many times. They had when called upon offered up their backsides for punishment and when that had been duly received they shared special moments in the boys’ lavatories comparing their marks. But the canings did nothing to deter them from rule breaking. In fact, they rather liked annoying authority. They broke rules, sometimes they got away with it and on other times they did not. A caning was, for them, an occupational hazard.

At last, the headmaster had said his fill. He rose (he attempted to do this majestically) from his chair and with a slow death-march crossed the study to the far wall where he opened a cabinet and reached inside.

‘We’re under starter’s orders,’ Henderson who was a horse racing fan said to himself. His thought was confirmed by a rattling sound from within the cabinet. Moments later the headmaster turned to face the two boys revealing a slender, rattan cane in his hands.

‘Blazers off,’ Dr. Thomson barked as he swished the cane through the air. When that task was completed, he continued, ‘Henderson stand in front of my desk. Peters, face the wall.’

Henderson stood some distance from the vast mahogany desk, displaying an air or arrogance that did not go unnoticed by the headmaster who swiped his cane with vigour through the air. ‘Stand closer,’ he grimaced, and then he paused for dramatic effect since he knew the effect his next words would have on the boy, ‘Take down your trousers and bend across the desk.’

The colour drained from Henderson’s face, his eyes glistened with fury as much as with humiliation. Trousers down. That was unheard of, no boy (as far as Henderson knew) had been caned trousers down before. Was it even allowed, he wondered. Now, was not the time to argue the point. The headmaster was in control; that as the way of the world, it always had been and it always would. Henderson could refuse, he could walk out of the study, but then what? Expulsion from school. Personally, he wouldn’t mind that one bit but his parents would go crazy. Life at home would not be worth living. No, Henderson didn’t need to think too deeply, he had to obey the headmaster’s orders no matter how much the boy despised the man.

The short trousers needed no belt, so with quivering fingers the eighteen-year-old unfastened the clip on the elasticated waistband. The weight of cigarettes and keys in his pockets sent the trousers hurtling down his legs to land in a puddle on top of his shoes. He stood damping down the urge to fight with the headmaster.

‘Bend over the desk Henderson,’ the headmaster was enjoying himself and he didn’t care if the two senior pupils in his study knew it. Henderson sucked on his lower lip and in a single athletic movement he bent over, gripping the edge of the desk, his teeth gritted. Dr. Thompson took a step back to admire the figure prostrated across his desk. Henderson was tall and slim and when he could be bothered was quite a star on the running track and the muscles in his legs and buttocks showed this.

His pullover and the tail of the lad’s shirt covered much of his white cotton underpants. The headmaster slipped his cane under his arm and with both hands he carefully slid first the pullover and then the shirt up the boy’s back and away from the target area. The white Y-fronts fitted Henderson’s bottom snugly, riding up his crack and separating each cheek. The headmaster took a moment to admire the sight before, again seeking maximum dramatic effect, he gripped hold of the elasticated waist of the pants. He smiled when he heard the gasp of shock that whistled through Henderson’s lips. The boy suddenly realised the importance of the headmaster’s actions. Dr. Thompson delayed his next action by counting to three in his head. Then, rather in the way a magician might whip off a cloth to show an audience the drinking glasses beneath had disappeared, he tugged the underpants over the boy’s buttocks and left them tangled up at his thighs. Henderson’s bottom was now completely bared for the trashing Dr. Thompson intended to inflict.

Peters, from his vantage point at the wall gasped in horror. He saw his pal bury his head in his arms in anticipation of the humiliation and the agony that he was about to feel. Dr. Thompson, again in no hurry, first tapped the cane across the crowns of the buttocks and then gently ‘sawed’ the cane across the crease where cheeks and thighs meet. He was finding his aim. Then suddenly, without further hesitation, the cane swished through the air, landing with a sharp crack on Henderson’s backside. A wave of pain shot through him, but he refused to cry out, determined to show some appearance of bravery. A thick dark-pink line quickly appeared where the cane had connected with the flesh.

As the cane fell again, Henderson couldn't suppress a yelp of pain, tears welled up in his eyes, and he bit his lip to stifle further cries. With the expertise of years of practice, Dr. Thompson administered the punishment with each stroke met with a yelp of pain and the humiliation was as painful as the physical pain.

Six times the cane rose and six times it swiped with tremendous force into Henderson’s naked bottom. Each stoke left behind a throbbing welt. Despite the agony he felt, Henderson kept his body still and his backside raised to receive the next cut. His bottom was on fire, his temples throbbed and he could feel the blood coursing through his body. He had never felt so much pain before nor had he experienced such fury against anyone in his life. He hated the headmaster and if by chance he had a gun to hand he would have gladly shot the man dead in his study.

‘You may stand. Get dressed,’ the pomposity of the headmaster rankled. Henderson gripped the side of the desk and slowly got himself to a standing position. His bottom felt like he had sat on hot coals. Unsteadily and fearful that he might tumble to the floor, Henderson managed to grip his underpants and with great pain get them over his scorched buttocks. The short trousers were soon back in their rightful position.

‘Change places with Peters. Peters, trousers down, bend over the desk.’ Peters tumbled to the floor in a faint.

Five minutes later the boys left the study, each with backsides aflame, each detesting the headmaster and the school a little more than they had before they entered the study. ‘Come on,’ Henderson pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket, I need a fag,’ and together they hobbled through the school gates to make their way to the relative seclusion of Widdicombe Woods.

 

Picture credit: Generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)

SOURCE

 

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