The Classroom Slipper

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

“If you insist on behaving like a ten-year-old, I’ll treat you like one, Mr Burgess their class teacher, said, brandishing a plimsoll. “I’m going to take you across my knee.” 

The three eighteen-year-old boys stood in the middle of the classroom, dumbfounded. He could not be serious. 

But, he was. 

“You first, Shaw.” 

This was an outrage. The three boys expected punishment, that was taken for granted. They had been caught bang to rights, no question about it. But, the proper punishment was the cane. One swish on each hand; two maybe, that was accepted: but not an over-the-knee spanking. 

And, the sixth-form boys knew from painful experience, there were a couple of perfectly suitable canes in the cupboard at the back of the classroom that could be used on them. 

Mr Burgess knew this too. He may have been only twenty-eight years old and relatively new to teaching, but he was of the old school. He was a working-class boy himself and he knew that the only way these kids would ever make anything of themselves was to push them – hard. And, if that meant delivering corporal punishment, then so be it. 

Why, only an hour ago at the end of morning classes he had caned two third-form boys who had been mucking about just a bit too much in his class. 

But, Mr Burgess had resolved, these three sixth-form boys now standing before him would not get the cane. They needed to be punished, yes, but they needed something more than just a bit of a pain in the arse that would wear off soon enough. They needed to be brought down a peg or two; they needed to be humiliated, so they wouldn’t quickly be running back for more. 

The three boys stood at the front of the class awaiting their fate while Mr Burgess went to the cupboard and selected his weapon of choice. It was a modern, open plan classroom, with tables grouped together, so six or eight pupils could sit together. Smallworth Comprehensive was quite progressive in some things. But Mr Burgess was anything but. 

Joe Shaw, Andy Nathan and Paul Murphy: all three lads were well known to Mr Burgess. He had been their class teacher for the past three years and he knew all about their antics, collectively and singly. They would never amount to anything the way they were behaving, doing as little schoolwork as possible, messing around in class, and disrupting good pupils who wanted to work. And, like now, they thought they could break any school rule they wanted to, as if the rules didn’t apply to them. 

Of course, Mr Burgess had caned the boys before: always on the bum. He knew that other class teachers used the stick on the palm of the boys’ hands. Even, the headmaster (or headteacher as they had to call him at Smallworth – it was something to do with gender equity) didn’t cane on the backside.                   

Mr Burgess didn’t believe in caning on the hands. The teachers at the school where he was a pupil used to do that, until one day, a rather timid boy withdrew his hand at the very moment the cane was lashed down and ended up with a broken finger. 

From that day on boys were caned on the seat of their trousers and as a teacher Mr Burgess preferred it that way. The caner had much more to aim at when a boy presented his posterior for punishment and the worst that could happen if a boy lost his nerve was that he stood up at the last minute and possibly ended up getting whacked across the back of his thighs. No harm done there: except it would be much more painful for the boy than if he had stayed down and taken it like a man. 

So, it was to be the slipper for these three lads. Mr Burgess had returned to the classroom early to get on with some marking and had caught the three of them red-handed in the classroom during the lunch break. That was against the school rules, everybody knew it, and that alone deserved punishment. But, he found the boys playing an impromptu game of catch ball. This involved bouncing a tennis ball against the wall and seeing who could get it to go higher and harder. It was a game all the first-year boys played; but, it was a game to be played outside in the playground, not in a classroom full of objects that could easily be smashed. And, the kids who played catch ball were eleven years old, damn-it. 

“Shaw, I said, come here and bend over my knee,” Mr Burgess repeated himself.

“Can’t we talk about this?” his pal Murphy asked. He was not looking forward to this one little bit. The cane, yes, but not an over-the-knee spanking: it wasn’t right. 

In one way, it was true, Mr Burgess’ plan to spank them “like ten-year-olds” was not right, or at least it wasn’t “authentic.” As Murphy knew from his own bitter experience, ten-year-old boys get spanked on their bare bottoms. 

Mr Burgess ignored Murphy’s request “to talk about this.” 

“Nathan, Murphy stand over there,” he indicated a space near the blackboard. “Shaw, get across my knee: I won’t tell you again.” 

Mr Burgess had taken his chair from behind his desk and placed it in front of the pupils’ tables. He sat squarely in the chair, with his back straight and his two feet firmly planted on the ground, a couple of feet apart. He was holding a size eight white plimsoll, the ones they used in gym class. 

Shaw blushed deeply, but made no sign of movement. Then he felt his left arm being firmly gripped by Mr Burgess, who pulled him slowly and deliberately across his lap. The eighteen-year-old’s hands avoided contact with his teacher’s corduroy trousers and instead reached down for the floor beyond, causing him to jolt his shoulder a little as his hands hit the floor. 

Shaw wriggled but could feel Mr Burgess tugging him, until he felt comfortable across the man’s lap and, strangely, until he felt he had assumed a satisfactory position for his bottom to be spanked. 

Mr Burgess looked down at the boy, now prostrate across his knees. Shaw was about five-foot-six, an inch or two shorter than Mr Burgess himself, and, he thought as he placed his hand around the boy’s middle to keep him in position face down across his knees, unexpectedly bony. 

Shaw shuddered, feeling the cheeks of his pert bottom exposed to the teacher’s gaze. Mr Burgess took a moment to drink in the sight of the boy he was about to spank. Shaw had very long hair at the back and a feather cut at the top. He was wearing black trousers that were tight at the waist, bum and thighs and then flared out at the knees into bell-bottoms. Were they correct school uniform? Were they the right colour, Mr Burgess wondered. But then again, if every boy in this school was punished for uniform code violations there would be a lot of sore bums and a lot of teachers with tired arms. 

Shaw was unaware of Mr Burgess’ thoughts: he was completely oblivious, until the large plimsoll landed hard, squarely and firmly across the centre of his bottom. “Ow!” he cried, in surprise as much as pain. 

Five more strokes followed with Mr Burgess allowing a break between them for the sting of each to be fully appreciated. Shaw gasped with an “Oww” as each stroke landed on his bottom and he grimaced and screwed his face up as though in quite some discomfort. 

Shaw felt that at first the pain wasn’t bad. It was simply warm and vigorous, but as the spanking continued, he realized with shock that his bum was on fire. Shaw’s buttocks bounced and quivered under the rain of blows. 

The spanking burned with a pain that bewildered him. Surely a slipper can’t hurt this much? But, every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from him. 

The spanking didn’t stop – it accelerated, the slipper coming harder and faster, somehow always catching Shaw by surprise, finding fresh areas of his buttocks to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea. 

His body lay flopped across the schoolteacher’s lap and there was nothing he could do to stop the pain. 

Mr Burgess held Shaw tighter to his body as the distressed boy was now writhing on his lap, vainly trying to protect his right buttock with a convulsively trembling hand. Mr Burgess stopped spanking for a moment, and heard a sob. 

Shaw was visibly crying; the slippering had reduced him to a trembling little boy. Mr Burgess was not a cruel man and stopped. He spread his feet out in front of him so that Shaw could lift himself clumsily off his lap. 

Slowly, and betraying visible discomfort, Shaw knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him. 

Mr Burgess ordered him to stand alongside the other two boys. Shaw did as he was told, his bottom throbbing in silent protest at the indignities it had just received. Not one square inch of his rear end had avoided Mr Burgess” expert attention. His bum was aglow. 

“Now, who’s next?” ……. 

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

SOURCE

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