The letter from school

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

Mr Potter examined the letter again and it didn’t make better reading the second time. His son Peter had dumped it on him before rushing out the door without even stopping to change out of his school uniform. Potter was struggling to maintain his temper and Peter knew it was best to be out of the house for a while.

Potter glanced at the clock on the wall. It was not yet five o’clock so there was still time to put in a call. He had surprisingly little difficulty getting through, it was as if Mr Richardson was expecting him. The conversation started tersely. “I got your letter. I can’t believe you did that,” Potter who was not known for his subtle approach to dealing with problems growled.

“I’m sorry Potter,” Richardson had been a headmaster for more years than he cared to remember and he was unfazed by angry parents. “I hoped I explained the situation in my letter.” Potter who was still holding the sheet of headed notepaper in his hand quickly reread its contents. “You say he was caught with a knife at school.”

“I’m afraid so, Mr Potter. We can’t have boys bringing such things into school. He’s a senior boy, he knows the rules.”

“Why did he have a knife?”  Potter was genuinely anxious. Knives could be dangerous, they could maim. They could kill.

“It’s a fashion thing,” Richardson told him. “There are different crazies at different times. It just so happens that at present it’s carrying sheaf knifes. I had to speak to the children at assembly the other day and I made it absolutely clear we could not tolerate the bringing of knives into school.”

“I understand that,” Potter had yet to calm down, “I know you have to do something about it but to expel him.”

“He hasn’t been expelled, Mr Potter, I have suspended him for two weeks because ...”

He couldn’t finish his explanation because Potter interrupted. “It might as well be expulsion, you’re so close to the end of term. He takes his exams soon and then he’s finished at the school for good.”

Richardson sighed, it was difficult to argue against that, “My hands are tied, Mr Potter, there’s nothing else I can do, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing else!”  Potter exploded. “Can’t you give him a stiff caning,” and then he remembered something, “I know he’s eighteen and you probably don’t cane senior boys but I will give you my consent if you want me to.”

Richardson sighed even more deeply, “Mr Potter this is 1987, not 1957, corporal punishment has been outlawed,” he hesitated and then in his frustration he added, “more’s the pity.”

Potter relaxed a little, “So, you say if you were able to you would have given him a caning rather than suspension?”

“In all honesty, Mr Potter, yes I would, but as I say there is nothing I can do.”

“Aren’t there other punishments?”  Potter couldn’t believe that troublesome kids now got off scott free now the cane was abolished.

“Not for serious offences, I’m afraid Mr Potter,” the headmaster had stopped sighing now. He had had similar conversations with his colleagues at the school. Abandoning the cane had made life increasingly more difficult, especially as older boys realized they were immune from punishment. “All I can do is to place him in detention or give him lines, neither of those seem an adequate punishment for the severity of his misbehaviour.”

Now Potter was the one sighing. “I can’t believe it, what idiot government passed this law?”  Richardson explained that there had been a campaign against corporal punishment growing for years and that parliament had passed the law by only a single vote. It was done in opposition to teacher unions, headmasters and according to opinion polls against the wishes of children themselves.

Potter listened to the tutorial with increasing depression. Then, an idea hit him so quickly that he didn’t have time to think about it before he blurted out, “Well, if you agree he should be caned and I consent couldn’t you go ahead and cane him anyway.”

Richardson let out a weak laugh. He didn’t want to tell Potter that he was the third parent this month to make a similar suggestion. “No, sorry Mr Potter it doesn’t work like that. I would be breaking the law. I could lose my job. I could end up being prosecuted in court.”

Disbelief and anger clouded Potter’s thinking but he shared his thought anyway, “What about if I came to the school and you loaned me one of your canes and I whacked Peter myself?” The silence at the other end of the phone suggested Richardson might actually be mulling over the possibility. At last, he spoke, “Good idea Mr Potter but unworkable I’m afraid. Really for just the same reasons I’ve already explained.”

Potter geared himself up for an extended rant over the telephone when the headmaster continued, “You know what Mr Potter I think I’ve just had a pretty good idea.” He paused, as like so many headmasters he was a bit of a drama queen and he wanted Potter to hang on to his every word. “What if you caned Peter yourself. At home.”

Potter hadn’t expected that suggestion, he liked it, but immediately found a flaw in the argument. “I don’t have anything to cane him with.”

Richardson smiled to himself, “If I may rely on your discretion, Mr Potter …”

So it was that thirty minutes later Potter stood in the headmaster’s study. He expected it to look like something out of the Billy Bunter books he read as a boy; all wooden panels, walnut desk and glass fronted bookshelves. Instead, it was a medium sized office with mostly pine effect furniture that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the admin building of the local authority. Richardson welcomed him with an almost conspiratorial giggle. “I have several specimens,” he said indicting the seven curve-handled canes that lay on his desk. “As you can see they are all pretty similar lengths and thicknesses. Anyone would serve the purpose.”

He picked one seemly at random and handed it to Potter. Potter’s heart missed a beat as happened to so many English men when confronted with a school cane. He had never seen a cane before outside of movies and television drama. He marvelled at its feather-lightness. Without thinking he flexed it between his hands and imagined what it might feel like to be on the receiving end of a thwack from the rod. It seemed far too light to do much damage.

“Don’t be deceived,” the headmaster said reading his guest’s mind, “in the right hands this is a mightily effective punishment tool. Here,” he picked up another cane from his desk, “let me show you. Look.” He gripped the cane and showed Potter the correct way to hold it just below the handle. “Wait,” he paused, “I saw our Mr Carter, the junior science master, in the corridor a few moments ago, let’s see if we can enlist his help.”

He exited the office and returned moments later with a young man in tow. Potter wondered how old the junior master was, he rather suspected that Carter was often mistaken for one of the senior pupils. His face was so clean and shiny he looked as if he hadn’t yet started shaving. The headmaster closed the door and introduced the two men to each other, explaining the purpose of the visit. “Now  Carter would you care to assist,” the headmaster smiled in such a way to make it clear this was an instruction and not a request. Turning to Potter he said, “It is best if you can have Peter bending over the back of a chair, or possibly a sofa, whatever is available. It has the effect of positioning him perfectly and at the same time it gives him something to lean into to steady himself against the impact of the stroke.”

Potter wondered if he ought to take notes, this might prove to be complicated. The headmaster took up a low backed chair and swivelled it into the middle of the office before picking up another cane. He tapped the end against the chair and said, “Carter would you please bend over the chair.” As if it was the most reasonable question an employer might ask of an employee Carter a little to eagerly to Potter’s eye stepped forward, hesitated a moment behind the chair before falling forward, rather like diving into a swimming pool.

Potter observed the junior science master adjust his legs and raise his bottom higher so that it rested on the apex of the chair.  Carter had a faraway expression on his face that suggested he might be revisiting in his mind some incident from his past.

“It is probably best to keep it simple,” Richardson continued his caning technique tutorial. He gripped the cane, “Brace the cane on the inside of the forearm. Keep the arm straight and swing it back, like so.” He demonstrated the raising of the cane. “Then make the forward cut and strike the fleshiest part of the bottom.” He started to swish the cane forward stopping just in time to avoid thwacking it across Carter’s stretched trousers. It landed with no more than a slight thud. Even so a gasp of air escaped the junior science master’s lips.

“Here, let me show you again.” Richardson repeated his demonstration before handing Potter the cane, “Here you have a go.” He watched as his guest awkwardly gripped the cane and stood too closely to the prostrate junior science master. “Stand a cane’s length to his side. Give yourself room to swing. That’s right. Good,” He praised his pupil. “Now swing it.”

By this time Potter was a little embarrassed. He had noticed the junior science master’s bottom twitching as if anticipating the fall of the cane, as if preparing to absorb the hurt that a stroke of the cane would deliver.

“Good man,” the headmaster was full of praise. “Now, give it a good swipe.” The concerned expression on Potter’s face made him continue, “You don’t mind do you Carter? The chap’s got to learn somehow.” Potter was astonished to hear a muffled consent coming from near the seat cushion. “Don’t be bashful. Let it swing,” the headmaster encouraged.

Potter had rarely paid much attention to men’s bottoms but this time he could see that Carter who was maybe 5 ft. 7 ins. tall was slim and wiry. He wore grey trousers with a darker stripe running through them and in his bent over position they clung snugly to his buttocks. Potter could just make out the outline of the young man’s underpants. “Aim for the fleshy part here,” the headmaster helpfully ran his own finger across the seat of Carter’s bottom. The young science master did not seem to object to this intrusion. “Go on man, let fly!”

Potter’s palm was damp with sweat and he rubbed it dry on the leg of his trousers, then with intense concentration he aimed the cane across the seat of Carter’s trousers. Tap-tap-tap. Then, trying hard to remember his instructions, he raised the cane away from the target, then let it hang in the air for a moment before bringing it forward with all the force he could muster. Thwack! Bingo. It was right on target. The junior science master yapped like a small dog. His knees buckled and he gripped the seat of the chair tightly.

“Well done, well done,” the headmaster enthused. “A perfect hit. Let’s hope it’s not beginner’s luck. Take another swipe. You don’t mind do you Carter?” Potter did not hear a voice of consent, but nor did he hear dissent. He took up position, took aim, rose the cane and let fly. It landed almost exactly on the same spot. The junior science master crossed his right leg over his left ankle in a nearly thwarted attempt to stop himself jumping from his prone position.

“How does that feel Carter?” the headmaster beamed. “Good shot? Yes?”

“Indeed sir,” the young man asserted through gritted teeth.

“Jolly good. Tell you what Potter, let’s complete the job. Give him another four. That’ll be six-of-the-best. I’ll leave it to you to decide how many you give your perishing son when you get home.”

Potter was more relaxed now that his confidence had grown. He sawed the cane across the centre of the junior science master’s buttocks a half inch or so higher than where the first stroke landed. Thwip! Another excellent landing.

After the sixth stroke landed the headmaster said tersely, “Stand up Carter. You may go now.” The junior science master didn’t need telling twice, he jumped to his feet and rubbing his backside he dashed for the door giving Potter only a moment to see the tears rolling down the face of the junior science master.

“I think you’re good to go,” the headmaster praised Potter. “Good luck.”

Cheerfully Potter took his leave. He felt a bit embarrassed carrying the cane through the school and out to the road where he had parked the car. Only now did the absurdity of what had just happened occur to him.

An hour later Peter returned home, it was time to face the music. Dad was alone in the living room. “Come in here, Peter,” he called when he heard the front door close. Peter, expecting trouble, hovered in the doorway of the room. “I’ve been to see your headmaster,” Potter said and at that moment his son saw the curve-handled cane laying on the table.  “And guess, what?” his father continued.

Dad didn’t know but there was no reason for Peter to guess, he knew very well what was going on. His best pal David had been given six-of-the-best by his own father after a similar visit to Richardson. The headmaster was encouraging his pupils’ fathers to take on the disciplinary role that had been stripped from him.

“Well?” Potter had expected more of a reaction from his son and he was a little disappointed. He had wondered if Peter would submissively accept his fate and present himself quietly for a caning. If there was to be a fist fight between the two of them, he expected Peter to comfortably win.

Peter eyed the cane. David had explained in great detail the circumstances of his own caning. He had proudly displayed the red marks on his bottom. Now, Peter supposed it was his turn. He must take it well, he didn’t want to let himself down in front of his pal. But Dad seemed reluctant to get things moving.

Peter took the initiative. “I’m sorry Dad,” he said, although he wasn’t particularly. “I shouldn’t have taken a knife to school.”

No, you shouldn’t,” Potter hesitated, he hadn’t rehearsed what to say, but Peter was in charge. “If I take a caning I won’t be suspended.” His father was too flustered to ask how his son knew about the arrangement.

“Where do you want me?” Peter glanced around the room. There was a dining table that was pushed against a wall and might not be suitable for the job. Across the room were a couple of armchairs and a settee. Without waiting for instructions, Peter walked and stood behind the settee. David had been bent across an armchair for his caning.

Potter, although a little confused by his son’s action, took it as a cue to get moving. He picked up the cane and as he had done in the headmaster’s study, he flexed it between his hands. Peter watched him closely, remembering the marks on David’s bottom. “Six of the best is it Dad,” it was a statement rather than a question. David had got six and Peter should get the same.

“Yes, yes,” Potter croaked with embarrassment. “You should bend over,” he said weakly. He flexed the cane waiting for his son to comply and almost dropped it as he watched Peter slowly unbuckle the canvas belt at his waist and tug at the zipper. The trousers slid to his feet. Without looking at his father, Peter slowly positioned himself over the settee. David had been caned on the pants and, Peter thought, so should he.

Potter’s head was buzzing. The headmaster said nothing about taking the trousers down. Peter crunched his eyes. He was prepared to take a caning, but if David’s description was accurate it was going to hurt a very great deal. Mr Potter looked at his son. The eighteen-year-old’s stomach was resting on the back of the settee and his knees were slightly bent. His white underpants fitted snugly. Peter had more ‘padding’ in his backside that Carter, the junior science master, and it made a formidable target.

Peter’s shirt and grey jumper covered the top part of his buttocks and without thinking Potter neatly tucked up the boy’s back so there was now a strip of hairless bare flesh above the bottom. Potter closed his eyes and tried to remember the headmaster’s instructions. This is not rocket science Richardson had said, and nor was it. Potter took a grip of the cane, kept his arm straight, found a spot on the underpants along the crease just where the buttocks meet the thighs. He raised the cane, let it hang in the air for a moment and brought it down with a resounding crack across his son’s backside. Peter gulped and shut his teeth immediately to stop the yaowl he wanted to make escaping his mouth. His knees buckled.

David had told him it felt like red hot poker had been pressed into the flesh. Peter had no idea what that felt like but the pain throbbing across his bum was intense. Potter felt very pleased with himself. The swipe had landed just where he intended and judging by his son’s reaction it had hurt him too.

Potter took his time aiming number two and was delighted to be rewarded with a yelp from Peter who also wriggled his hips from side to side. The third had the teenager stomping his feet. Peter could fell three distinct lines pulsating under his tight underpants. He would have something spectacular to show David later that evening.

“Keep still,” Potter barked; he was enjoying himself immensely. I should have done this a long time ago, he told himself, remembering all his son’s brattish behaviour. He treated the house like a hotel and was consistently surly and rude. He would ask the headmaster if he could keep the cane. He would hang it on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs, so that it was readily at hand the next time Peter came home late after a night at the pub.

But that was for the future, he still had more strokes to deliver. Carefully, he sawed the cane across the highest point of the teenager’s mounds. There was lots of flesh here. He tap, tap, tapped the cane thinking the boy was running to fat, he ought to spend more time on the running track and less in the pictures. Crack! Another swipe hit its target and again Peter stomped his feet. This time he wrapped his right leg around the left ankle and his body stiffened. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping to his feet so that he could rub away furiously at the severe agony in his bum.

Then, it was over. Six-of-the-best, expertly delivered, if Mr Potter did say so himself. Peter lay across the settee breathing heavily like a beached dolphin. It hurt so much. David had said it did but he hadn’t truly believed him; he thought he had been exaggerating. Peter would never doubt his pal again.

“Stand up,” Potter tried to remember how the headmaster had dismissed the junior science master. It had been curt, he recalled. “Get dressed. Go to your room,” he intoned. Peter pulled his trousers up and without bothering with the zipper and belt he dashed from the room. Upstairs he tugged down his trousers and pants and pointing his bum at the mirror he examined the damage. Six thick stripes adorned his bottom. Wow, he thought, Dad had done a good job. It was miles better that David’s old man’s effort.

Peter dumped his uniform and dressed in jeans and a top he hurried from the house to find David anxious to show off his dad’s expertise.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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