The Secret

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard of St. Michael’s School. It was a prestigious boarding school, nestled in the rolling hills of the English countryside. The school’s ivy-covered walls and towering spires gave it an air of grandeur, but it was also known for its strict disciplinary measures.

Inside the headmaster’s study, a sense of foreboding permeated the air as Edward Sinclair stood before the imposing desk of the headmaster, Mr. Archibald Cunningham. Edward was a senior boy in the Sixth, although he had only recently joined the school in mysterious circumstances.

He was dressed as all St Michael’s boys were in a red blazer made of heavy wool. His pale grey trousers were a little too tight at the crotch and buttocks and the white cotton shirt and tightly knotted tie was choking. No matter how cold the weather he was always sweating. Why people wore such uncomfortable clothes was beyond his understanding.

This was the first time he had been in the headmaster’s study – or any room like it. The headmaster’s desk was a grand piece of furniture, made from a rich, dark natural substance; wood, Edward supposed. Its surface was large and imposing and there was a writing pad on its surface. Edward knew it would be impossible but he still expected there to be electronic gadgets, not pens and paper.

The headmaster was seated in a high-backed, upholstered chair (almost certainly made of leather). It looked like a king’s throne with intricate carvings and plush cushioning. Behind Edward, near the open fireplace (it was not lit, but Edward’s knowledge of science told him it would be grossly inefficient at heating the room) was an armchair. This was as plush as the desk chair, upholstered in the same rich leather.

Although Edward had never been in a headmaster’s study he had read many stories written for small boys some hundreds of years in his past that described such places. So, it was no surprise to him to see along one wall an imposing, floor-to-ceiling bookcase, made of the same dark wood as the desk. This bookcase housed a vast collection of books. The shelves were adorned with carefully arranged volumes, some with ornate bindings and others well-worn from years of use.

On the walls were shelves filled with various curiosities and mementos: an antique globe, framed photographs of past headmasters, as well as sporting trophies received by the school.

Despite his research, Edward was still surprised to see standing in one corner hanging from a coat stand were three curve-handled whippy rattan punishment canes. They were of different lengths and thicknesses and, Edward knew, they were a solemn reminder of the headmaster’s authority and his disciplinary role within the school.

Mr. Cunningham, a tall, stern man in his fifties, peered over his reading glasses at Edward. ‘Sinclair,’ he began, his voice as cold and unwavering as the dark panelled walls of the study walls that surrounded them. ‘Do you have any idea why you’ve been summoned to my study this evening?’

Edward shifted nervously; his palms clammy. ‘I... I suppose it’s about the incident in the library, sir.’

The headmaster raised an eyebrow. ‘The incident in the library, indeed. Vandalizing school property, defacing books, and disrupting the peace and order of this institution.’ Mr. Cunningham’s gaze bored into Edward. ‘This behaviour will not be tolerated.’

Edward knew that he had made a grave mistake, but he also knew that he couldn’t reveal the true reason behind his actions. He had been protecting a secret, one that he couldn’t afford to let anyone discover. At all costs nobody must know the true reason he was sent to the school.

Mr. Cunningham rose from his desk, and the ominous creak of his leather chair seemed to amplify the tension in the room. The headmaster walked to the coat stand and for a moment contemplated the three canes hanging there. Edward waited perturbed. He had read about school canings, especially those administered in elite so-called ‘public schools’ of this era. This was not going to be pleasant.

Mr. Cunningham took down the shortest and thinnest cane and flexed it as if handling it for the very first time. Then he returned it to its place. He tested each cane before deciding on the heaviest and thickest, This, he flexed and then swished through the air, its menacing hiss filling the silence. Edward’s heart sank as he contemplated the punishment that awaited him.

‘Take that chair,’ the headmaster spoke clearly, ‘and put it there,’ he pointed to a spot in the middle of the room

It was a straight-backed chair for the use of visitors. How many, Edward wondered, realised it had a dual purpose: for sitting on while discussing matters with the headmaster or bending over to receive a thrashing from the same man.

It was not as ornate as the headmaster’s chair but heavy nonetheless and Edward struggled to manoeuvre it into position. Mr. Cunningham tutted and tusked with irritation.

‘Now,’ the headmaster intoned, ‘bend over the chair.’ Edward hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. How was this done exactly. Was he expected to bend over the back of the chair? Or lay across the seat, or what? The headmaster was losing what little patience he had. ‘Stand in front of the chair,’ he snapped, ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed when Edward took up position. ‘Now bend over and grab hold of the chair’s seat. Head low. Stick your bottom out.’

With a deep breath, he obediently bent over the chair, gripping the edges tightly. This was humiliating, he thought, although his scientist’s mind told him that such emotions needed to be controlled. He needed to keep a clear head so that he could later recall everything that happened to him. He had to endure the punishment, even though it meant maintaining his secret.

The headmaster approached Edward, cane in hand, and stood behind him. ‘Sinclair,’ he intoned sternly, ‘I hope this serves as a lesson to you. You are new to our school and you are a senior boy and you must learn, as all the pupils of St. Michael’s do, that discipline is the cornerstone of our institution, and it will be upheld at all costs.’

Edward felt the cane rubbing across the centre of his stretched bottom. His trousers were tight and the cloth stretched up into his crutch and buttock cheeks. He felt extremely vulnerable; none of his predeparture training had prepared him for this.

The floorboards creaked as the headmaster steadied himself before raising the cane high, letting it wobble in midair for a moment before returning it with great vigour to strike across Edward’s backside. Edward gritted his teeth, suppressing a cry of pain. His bottom felt like it was on fire. His hips wriggled and he held onto the chair for his dear life.

The headmaster tapped the cane across the lowest part of Edward’s cheeks, he raised the cane once more, paused and then swiped it home. It hurt so much that Edward could not control his movements, his right leg kicked and he let go of the chair. He dearly wanted to rub away at his bottom.

‘No, you don’t boy,’ the headmaster growled, and he pressed his hand into Edward’s back pushing him back down into the chair. ‘There are extra strokes for standing up,’ he barked.

Edward steadied himself. This was a painful experience, but also it was authentic. He had read that in some cases boys had been required to lower their trousers and sometimes their underpants too to get a thrashing on their bare bottoms. The beatings were sometimes so harsh they were called ‘floggings.’  

Mr. Cunningham was caning him so hard it could truthfully be called a ‘beating’ but Edward doubted it was a ‘flogging.’ The cane was dense and was being laid on with great force, but, he supposed, a flogging with birch rods across the bared buttocks would hurt much more. He wondered if his controller would expect him to endure such a punishment sometime on this assignment.

As the next stroke fell, Edward’s thoughts drifted to the secret he had been protecting. He knew that he had to keep it hidden, and that meant enduring the headmaster’s punishment.

Finally, when six strokes had fallen (Edward now understood why they were called ‘six-of-the-best’) Mr. Cunningham was satisfied that the lesson had been learned. He lowered the cane and stepped back. Edward remained bent over the chair, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pain.

‘You may stand, Sinclair,’ the headmaster said, his voice no longer as harsh as before.

Edward rose slowly, his body aching but his resolve unbroken. He knew that he had a challenging path ahead, balancing the demands of school discipline and the weight of his secret. As he hobbled from the headmaster’s study, he wondered how long he could maintain this delicate balance between truth and deceit.

Picture credit: Charles H. Chapman (The Magnet)

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