The Maths Master
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
I had been ordered to meet the maths master
Mr Matthews in the classroom after school and when I arrived he confirmed what
I had expected. I had failed to attend several of his lessons; I rarely did
homework and if I didn’t buck up my ideas I would fail the end of year exams.
It was early summer and the room was bright
with sunlight and as hot as the fires of hell. I stood shuffling from foot to
foot while Mr Matthews pretended to be engaged in a text book as if he were
making notes for a lesson he was due to give. The pause gave me time to observe
the man. He was what today we might call ‘old school.’ He looked old to me but
I don’t suppose he was yet into his fifties. I had just turned eighteen and
anyone over thirty was ancient to me.
Despite the heat Mr Matthews was formally
dressed with a long-sleeved shirt and a tie tightly knotted at his throat. He
always wore a smart dark suit even in the classroom when chalk dust flew during
his energetic lessons. He enjoyed teaching and was very good at it.
He made me wait. As I suppose he intended
it gave me time to consider why I had been called to see him. This was not as
far as I could tell usual practice. If he ‘wanted a word’ with a pupil he would
have it during or after a lesson. Perhaps, the fact that I was often absent
made it difficult for him to do this. He had found me earlier in the day
wandering around aimlessly and had delivered his instruction then.
At last, he closed the book and turned his
attention to me. “You know why I’ve asked you to see me.” It wasn’t a question
and I didn’t see any reason to reply. A hiss escaped through his pursed lips.
Clearly, he expected more. “Well?” he snapped. I mumbled something incoherent.
I realised my heart was beating as fast as if I was on the athletic track and
my breathing was uneasy.
He told me what I knew. He said I had
missed classes and not done homework. He was right, there was nothing I could
say. I had no mitigation to speak of. I was just at that age; I had lost
interest in school and being unsure what I wanted to do when I left in a few months’
time I was drifting. I wasn’t the only one, many of my friends were the same. I
went to one of those schools where it was expected that we would want to go on
to university and have professional careers. I didn’t know what I wanted to do.
It’s not like I had dreams of being a writer or a musician or something, I was
just drifting.
Mr Matthews sighed some more. “You are not
a bad boy,” he told me. “If you applied yourself you could do well. Make
something of yourself. Make your parents proud.” I don’t know why he mentioned
my parents, he didn’t know them. They had never had much schooling (having been
brought up during the war) and weren’t the kind who wanted me to have things
they hadn’t. They would be happy if I got a job, got married and gave them
grandchildren.
Mr Matthews was on a roll. Perhaps he made
this speech every year to one or two senior boys like myself. He said, “You are
drifting and you need a helping hand to put you back on track.” I had no response;
I shrugged my shoulders. This wasn’t meant as insolence, I just didn’t know.
Did I want to get back on track, did I care if I passed the maths A-level or
not? Mr Matthews saw it otherwise. “How dare you! That is entirely typical,” he
fumed, “You don’t know when you are on to a good thing. This school has one of
the best reputations in the town, you should feel privileged to be here.”
I looked at him blankly, trying hard not to
show through looks or gestures what I really thought of the school. This was
1974 and to look at the school you might think it was fifty years earlier. The
building dated back a couple of hundred years and so did many attitudes. We did
Latin and Greek, we played rugby, we had an army cadet force. The masters (all
men, no mistresses here) wore black academic gowns and caps with tassels.
“You need a wakeup call, you need to buck
up your ideas,” Mr Matthews was dredging up every cliché in the schoolmaster’s
lexicon. “And I’m going to make sure you do.”
He rose from behind his desk and walked to
the centre of the room, bringing his chair with him as he went. This he plonked
down in the space between the pupils’ desks and the blackboard. He glared at me
with bright blue eyes and suddenly, I realised what he intended to do. This was
a traditional school with very old-fashioned ideas. Any moment now I would be
ordered to present myself across the back of the chair. My eyes darted around
the room, but there was no whippy, curve handled cane in sight and there was
nowhere that I could see where one might be hidden.
Mr Matthews hitched up his trousers below
the knees (to preserve the creases) and sat down on the chair. I watched as he
wriggled his bottom and lent back into the chair. He spread his legs a little.
“Now,” he clicked his fingers at me, “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot a
couple of feet to his right. I was too confused to move. “Now!” he snapped.
“There!” he pointed once more so there was no doubt what he wanted me to do. I
shuffled into position.
“Right,” he looked icily at me and my
stomach churned. I couldn’t understand what was happening but slowly it was
dawning on me. “This is for your own good,” Mr Matthews said softly. “Take down
your trousers.” I stood rigid. Had I heard him correctly? Take down my trousers.
I would have understood if he had ordered me to bend over the chair and present
myself for Six of the best from his cane. I don’t suppose a single day went by
without a boy somewhere in the school being caned. It was that kind of school,
although it was rare if not entirely unheard of for a sixth-former to be
beaten.
A caning I could understand, but this? “Don’t
make a fuss,” Mr Matthews glared at me and I stood frozen. “Trousers down,” he
said sternly and when I still did not move he added, menacingly, “Please don’t
make me do it for you.” Unaccountably, the thought of this old man fumbling
with my belt buckle and unzipping my flies intrigued me. Defiantly, I stood my
ground. “Doh!” he spluttered. Clearly, he had not expected such disobedience.
He took hold of the waist of my trousers and pulled me closer to him. Then,
rather expertly, he had my belt undone and the front of my trousers open. We
wore grey long trousers and with the belt and the wallet in my pocket the
weight soon had the trousers slipping down my thighs, and they bunched at the
knees. It was a hot afternoon and I had not worn my blazer nor a jumper so now
was standing before Mr Matthews wearing a white shirt and white underpants.
“Come here,” this time he didn’t instruct
me to bend across his knees; perhaps expecting further defiance he took hold of
my left arm and pulled me towards him. I tumbled across his knees and had to
put my hands in front of me to stop me falling off and landing on the floor.
I was now face down over his knee, with my
face inches from the ground, my knees bent and my feet firmly planted. I
couldn’t see myself but I imagined that my bottom was presented at a tight
angle just over Mr Matthew’s right thigh. I was, I suppose, in that traditional
position endured by countless naughty boys over the decades. I might add I was
a fit lad (in many senses of the word) and Mr Matthews was not so tall so I was
a bit too big for an over-the-knee spanking. I was an enthusiastic athlete in
those days so had fine muscles in my legs and a hard round bottom. The
regulation white underpants I wore were snug fitting and really hid very
little.
I had a moment to contemplate my
predicament. I was bent over the maths master’s knee with my trousers down and
my pants-covered bottom on display and at any moment he was going to spank me.
Was he allowed to do this? Did the school rules permit such? Was this even
legal? I had no time for questions because Mr Matthews was at that moment using
the palm of his hand to smooth wrinkles from my cotton underpants. Satisfied
that I was perfectly presented, he raised his hand and delivered the first
slap, right in the centre of my right cheek. He repeated the manoeuvre on the
left. And then developed a steady rhyme, spanking the left, then the right and
so on. For a while he concentrated landing his palm across the very fleshiest
part of my bottom. I had never been spanked (caned and slippered, yes, but
never spanked) and I wasn’t sure how much this was supposed to hurt.
Certainly, he warmed up the mounds of my
cheeks before turning his attention to the higher levels and the undercurves.
He didn’t speak as he laid on the spanking and the only noise in the room was
the steady slap-slap-slap of his palm connecting with my cotton-covered bottom.
The pain, such as it was, began to mount and that and the fact that I was
turned upside down and facing the floor made it difficult to breathe. I gasped
and each gasp corresponded with a slap. Slap. Gasp. Slap. Gasp.
I lost all sense of time. I might have been
over his knee for thirty seconds; it might conceivably have been thirty
minutes. Eventually, he stopped slapping. It took a moment before I realised
this had happened and perhaps believing the spanking was at an end I wriggled
and made to get off his lap. “No you don’t,” he snapped. “We haven’t finished,”
he coughed, and added with a flourish, “We haven’t even started yet.” To my
astonishment he gripped the waistband of my underpants and with a couple of hard
tugs he had them down over my buttocks and resting on top of my trousers. My
bottom was now completely bare.
Believe it or not, I let him do this. I
have already said that I was eighteen years old and something of an athlete so
if I had wanted to I could have told Mr Matthews to go to hell. I could have resisted
and stopped him pulling down my trousers. I could have punched him in the eye
when he tried to take me across his knee. I did none of these things. It is
true that I did not submissively prepare myself as instructed, by taking down
my own trousers and bending over, but I had submitted to him. I lay without
struggling across his knees and let him get on with spanking my naughty bottom.
Now, with my buttocks bared, I again made
no protest. It was not uncommon to be bare-arsed in front of my fellow pupils,
in the showers after rugby or swimming and so on. We were an all-boys’ school
and the lads were not shy in showing off their physical attributes. I knew I
had a fine bottom which was admired by many and I was not afraid to let them
have a look.
That said, I had never gone out of my way
to let the games master see me naked, so it was a new experience for me to have
the maths master caress the curves of my naked buttocks. I felt (and in my
imagination saw) Mr Matthews pat and preen my bum. He seemed satisfied and
after a while he let fly. The sound of palm on naked flesh is less muted than
when cotton underpants are worn and the sound reverberated around the room. It
was summer and the classroom was hot and a window at the far end was open. We
were on the ground floor of the building and it was possible that some boys
might still be lingering after school and would hear. Would they recognise the noise
for what it was: an eighteen-year-old sixth-former senior pupil having his bare
bottom spanked by a master. I found the thought oddly exciting.
The slaps although probably not any harder
than previously, hurt much more. The cotton underpants had provided some
protection. Now, I was in pain. I had been gasping, now I was yapping. I had
little control over my body and couldn’t stop my hips wriggling nor my legs
kicking. I felt Mr Matthews grip me around the waist, obviously to stop me
getting away. I closed my eyes; my temples were now throbbing almost as much as
my backside.
Still, I had no concept of time. My head
was buzzing. It was some kind of elation. The school wasn’t big on teaching
science so my knowledge of human biology was scant and I didn’t realise this
was a euphoria brought on by my predicament: a humiliating circumstance mingled
with pain. I did not realise it but I was having a high. Only years later when
I dabbled with drugs would I have a similar experience.
The spanking went on … and on. At last,
satisfied that I had been punished enough, or simply because he had exhausted
himself with his exertions, Mr Matthews let me rise. I stumbled to my feet and
with no regard that Mr Matthews could now see both my bare bottom and my
privates I hopped up and down while simultaneously rubbing away at my bottom.
It surprised me how much heat had been generated. There was no mirror in the
room so I twisted my body to try to inspect the damage. Mr Matthews had done a
good job. Not one square inch of buttocks and thighs had been left unattended.
My usually pale white skin was a uniform deep pink. I could just make out the
outline of Mr Matthews’ fingers, this was especially so at the edges of my
buttocks.
“Get dressed,” Mr Matthews instructed and I
did so. I can’t remember what he said next but I do recall that within seconds
I was out of the classroom and running through the corridors to get to the
sixth-form toilet. Once inside I had a closer look at my pert bottom. I must
confess that the sight aroused me and I had no choice but to pleasure myself.
….
None of that story is true. But for decades
I have believed it to be so; it is so real in my mind. Mr Matthews was a real teacher
(name changed, of course); I was eighteen in 1974 and that school existed. The
mind does strange things to a person. I have never been to a therapist so I
don’t know why I invented this fantasy and continue to believe (to want to
believe?) it is true.
Picture credit: Sting
Pictures
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