School Shorts (3)

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

Flash fiction: stories written in exactly 100 words.

All illustrations generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)

He was bent over the desk, the material of his trousers clung snugly to his buttocks, separating the cheeks, and showing the outline of his underpants. These poked above his waistband demonstrating that he was wearing school regulation Y-fronts. I stood back a couple of steps to admire the view and let him sweat while I choose the exact angle and distance from which to administer a severe caning. We were in front of the sixth-form Classics class and I knew that my audience would later meet to grade my expertise out of ten. I intended to win top marks.

The new headmaster confronted the four sixth-form delinquents. They stood contritely side-by-side, hands behind their backs in their regulation blazers and long pale grey trousers, blinking their way through the diatribe of condemnation which, it seemed, the new headmaster felt necessary to recite to justify the punishment he was about to hand out. Rules were rules and they applied to the seniors as to the juniors. The headmaster’s reputation for discipline had preceded him to the school but even so each boy gasped audibly when he flexed his cane menacingly and ordered, ‘Blazers off, trousers and underpants down. Bend over.’

Toby Finsberry had been the first of the three sixth-formers to disappear behind the study door, and had later emerged, tear-stained and walking with distinct unease. Cecil Smithly-Dubbs had followed him in, and was still out of sight, but not out of hearing. Auberon Carlton listened to the cries and pleadings which came from the dreaded room, as the sound of the slipper colliding with bare buttocks rang out, and he braced himself to face yet another smarting encounter with Dr. Harvey’s size 12 plimsoll, and the slightly peculiar feeling he always had when deprived of his trousers and underpants.

That’s over, you may stand up. Don’t think for one moment I enjoyed doing that, because I didn’t. You may be a senior, eighteen years old, but you must learn that the rules apply to you also. You have been here too many times, Jensen. For cheating in your exams, for talking back to your masters, for skipping your classes. And now, for smoking in the toilets, and not attending detention. It is a pity that I am only permitted to administer six strokes. Remember this moment. Learn from it, and let it guide you toward a path of responsibility.

The door was left slightly open so we could hear but not see what was going on. A leather chair was being placed in the centre of the headmaster’s study. The head was droning on with his lecture; misdeeds were catalogued, futile apologies offered. Then we heard the swish and crack as the cane connected for the first time with Harry’s bare backside. The volume of the sixth-former’s whimper increased to yaps and yelps and a terrific howl on the last stroke. Outside we all looked anxiously at one another, all of us wishing we could be anywhere but here.

I was standing remorsefully in my pyjamas in front of the housemaster’s desk with my hands behind my back. He picked up his cane. ‘Bend over the desk please,’ he told me. ‘Feet together and grab hold of the far end.’ I did as I was told. My balls were squishing against the side of the desk and I was trying to find a comfortable position. ‘Stand on your tip-toes.’ he told me and as I did, he reached underneath and lifted my dick and balls on top of the desk. There was nothing sexual in the move, only realignment.

SOURCE

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