School Shorts (4)

 

Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

Flash fiction: stories written in exactly 100 words.

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

Medowkent stared directly ahead and tried not to hear the sounds coming from behind him. The Housemaster had opened the cupboard in the corner and there was a distinct rattling as he delved inside. The sixth-former’s buttocks clenched involuntarily and his heart raced at the swoosh of a whippy rattan cane being swiped through empty air. He clasped his hands tightly. Footsteps on the creaking floorboards alerted him that the Housemaster was now standing behind him. He felt a sharp tap as the cane connected with the seat of his trousers. ‘Let’s have these down Medowkent. Bend over my desk.’

‘Did you two not get the message,’ the Head of History confronted Rowlands and Castle, ‘the new headmaster has banned sixth-formers from going to the pub,’

‘But we’re eighteen, it’s legal,’ Rowlands protested. ‘The headmaster is the law as far as you two are concerned,’ Mr. Trumpington replied. ‘And, now he’s brought back the cane. You two are in for an interesting afternoon. Now, back to school and report to his study.’

‘Can’t we finish our drinks?’ Castle asked ruefully. If he had to bend over at the Head’s pleasure he needed something inside him to give him the courage.

Paul replayed the scene in the headmaster’s study. ‘Smoking is an appalling habit, and against the rules. A senior boy should set an example. I shall thrash you.’ The headmaster took up a cane from the bookshelf and swished it about, increasing Paul’s tension considerably. ‘Stand here!’ the master commanded pointing to the desk. ‘Bend over. Elbows on the desk. That’s right. I shall give you six strokes. Do not get up.’ The master tapped the cane across the centre of his bum, making him flinch. There was a pause, then a ‘zip’ sound, and Paul's bum was in agony. 

 Oakridge Academy 1957: in the study with my prefects. There wasn’t one backside in that group that I hadn’t tanned at one time or another. Indeed, Taylor, the arrogant young man with his hands in his pockets, was obliged to fold himself over the back of an armchair shortly after this picture was taken. Eighteen years or not, and in the last days of his final term, he couldn’t be allowed to slip away to the pub to play snooker with village louts. He took it well: head low, bottom high; six stingers with shorts and underpants down. Happy days!

My housemaster was a speed merchant. It didn’t matter if you were a junior or like me eighteen years old and in the Sixth, it was always the same. ‘You know why you’re here, get ready.’ That meant blazer off, bend over, bottom out; then WHACK! ... WHACK! ... till the sixth stroke had been laid on and your bum throbbed. Then, ‘Get up and get out! Send in the next boy.’ All done in the quickest possible time, no lecture, no pleas of mitigation. If there was an Olympic event for speed caning, Mr. Steffink would get the Gold.

Although Charlie felt a little scared bending over the desk in front of the other sixth-formers, at the same time there was this other feeling – one of almost looking forward to the punishment – of having the chance to prove his manliness to his new classmates. He had just joined the school and wanted to be popular with the other boys, to display a rebellious spirit and be admired as something of a hero. He felt the tap of the cane across his short-trousers as the master found his aim, and he closed his eyes tight, praying he wouldn’t disgrace himself.

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