Virtual Reality …
‘This, Mr Waterman,’ the salesman said
flashing a sycophantic smile, ‘is the very latest in virtual reality
technology.’ He held a headset with visor attached. ‘It can do anything your
imagination allows. You can go anywhere; past, present, or future. You can see,
hear, smell and best of all you can feel anything that you want to. All sensory
avenues are open to you.’
He passed the gadget to his customer and
watched as the old man appeared to fondle it lovingly. But, then he saw a look
of apprehension in Mr Waterman’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ the salesman purred,
‘everything is strictly private. No one need ever know what goes on inside your
head. This virtual reality kit can give you the ultimate experience. You have
my word.’
Eagerly, Mr Waterman handed over his
credit card. Later that evening in the confines of his plush home in The
Avenue, Brocklehurst. He places the headset and visor on his head, and using
the voice control he sets off on a journey.
It is the 1950s, a grammar school in a
nondescript English provincial town. Grenville Waterman, an eighteen-year-old
senior boy is in the headmaster’s study. He is dressed in typical uniform of a
schoolboy of the time: blue blazer, white shirt, pale-grey trousers and black
shoes.
The headmaster wears a traditional flowing
black gown. His mortar-board cap hangs on a stand in the corner of the room.
The study itself resonates with tradition, the walls are oak panelled, there is
an open fireplace, glass-fronted book cases and a walnut desk in front of which
Waterman is now standing.
The headmaster speaks.
‘You seem to think that the rules do not
apply to you. Let me disabuse you of that. The rules apply to everyone, from
the most junior boy to the most senior. Do you understand me.’
Waterman stands, hands behind back, trying
to affect a pose of indifference. He does not speak.
‘You were at the assembly at which I
informed the school that the town was out of bounds to all boys during the
lunchtime.’ He pauses for a response but when none is forthcoming, he
continues, ‘I made my position absolutely clear.’
The headmaster glares at the boy standing
before him barely unable to contain his anger at the apparent distain Waterman
is showing.
The headmaster continues, ‘Yet this lunchtime
you were seen in town. You deliberately disobeyed my explicit instruction. What
have you to say for yourself.’
Waterman stares down at his shoes in
silence.
‘Pah!’ the headmaster explodes, not trying
to contain his temper. ‘Such insolence. Well, boy you leave me no alternative.’
The headmaster hauls himself from his
desk. Waterman’s eyes follow him as he lumbers across the study to the hatstand
in a far corner. Dangling from it are three crook-handled canes, each a little
over three feet in length and of various thicknesses. One is a darker colour
brown than the others and it is this one the headmaster selects. He flexes it
between his hands to get its measure and he swipes it through the air. His face
shows evident satisfaction with his choice and he turns to Waterman. He points
the cane at an armchair.
‘Stand behind that chair.’
The boy glares at the headmaster but
reluctantly takes the few steps necessary to comply with the instruction.
The headmaster continues to flex the cane
while he speaks. ‘You are a senior boy. You should know the importance of rules
and obeying them. You should set an example to the younger boys. Instead, you
deliberately snub my instructions. I cannot allow that to go unpunished.’
Waterman is affecting not to listen but he hears every word and realises what
is about to happen. He clasps his hands behind his back to steady them.
The headmaster swipes the cane through the
air and says calmly. ‘Take down your trousers and underpants.’
Waterman’s face conveys his shock. He
stands unsure what to do. His face reddens with embarrassment. He does not
move.
‘Trousers down, I say,’ the headmaster
says sternly.
Waterman still does not move but he
bumbles. ‘B…b…but…’
‘Trousers down. Or would you rather I
expelled you from the school. There will be no examinations and no university
place.’
The look on Waterman’s face shows that he
is only now understanding the dire consequences of expulsion.
‘Stop wasting my time. Trousers down,
boy.’
The look of hatred is evident on Waterman’s
face as fingers trembling he unbuckles his belt. The trousers have a button fly
and it takes him some time to get them open. The trousers slip down his legs
and puddle at his feet. He stands face blazing with humiliation. The headmaster
looks the boy up and down. He is wearing white cotton Y-front underpants.
‘Underpants down too,’ the headmaster
intones. Waterman shoots him a look of pure hatred. He stands statuesque,
unable to move.
‘I’m waiting,’ the headmaster growls while
still flexing the cane. Waterman closes his eyes and in one continuous movement
puts his thumbs in the inside of the elasticated waist of his pants and with a
flick of his wrists he has them down over his buttocks.
‘All the way, boy,’ the headmaster snaps.
Waterman pushes the Y-fronts over his thighs, past his knees until they snag at
his shins. He cups his hands to cover his genitals.
‘Bend over the chair,’ the headmaster taps
his cane against the back of an armchair so there is no mistaking his meaning.
The eighteen-year-old takes a pace forward, contemplates the size of the chair
and slowly lowers himself forward. He holds on to the arms of the chair.
‘All the way boy, all the way,’ the
headmaster’s patience is gone. ‘Grab the seat cushion. Keep your head low. Lift
your bottom higher. Spread your legs,’ he commands. Waterman wriggles until he
has complied with the headmaster’s instructions.
The headmaster takes a couple of steps
backwards and stands contemplating the sight of the submissive boy who has his
trousers and underpants at his ankle and is bent across the chair with his bare
bottom presented for punishment. The target area is covered in part by the
boy’s shirt and pullover, so the headmaster grabs hold of the tail ends and
drags them up his back so there is now two or three inches of lower back on
display. The buttocks are now fully bared and the headmaster can begin.
He takes up a position to the left of the
boy and taps about six inches of the end of his cane across the highest and
fleshiest part of the buttocks. ‘Count each stroke, boy,’ he snaps and then he
raises the cane away from the boy’s bottom and returns it with tremendous
force. The sound of the crack of cane against bare flesh resounds around the
room. It is immediately followed by a tremendous hissing noise from Waterman’s
mouth. He beats his fists against the seat cushion. A dark red stripe
immediately appears across his pale flesh. He shuts his mouth tightly to stop
the howl his wants to make.
‘Count boy, count,’ the headmaster
admonishes him.
‘One sir,’ Waterman croaks, his voice
almost inaudible.
The headmaster takes several paces around
his study while looking at the boy from a distance. He wants to make sure there
is sufficient time for the stroke to be fully felt before he delivers the next
one.
He takes up position again and gently saws
the cane across Waterman’s buttocks about an inch below the first stroke. The
boy’s buttocks quiver with anticipation and his shoulders can be seen to tense
as he prepares for the shock of another cut.
Swoosh! Crack! the next stroke lands and
Waterman’s head raises and falls and shakes from side to side like a neighing
horse. Again, he just about manages to stifle a yell. ‘Two, sir,’ he whispers
and the headmaster goes on his stroll again.
Then he is back and aims the third stroke
a small distance above the other two. It lands with even more force than the
previous ones. The headmaster is showing no mercy. He believes the boy has
deliberately disobeyed his instruction and he deserves all that he is getting.
‘Three, sir,’ Waterman gasps.
The headmaster paces the room and then
stands close to the boy and leans over him to inspect his handiwork so far.
There is a clear red throbbing stripe with three welts developing. The
headmaster is an excellent shot. He lands his cane precisely where he wants it.
He takes up position and lands the next stroke in the under-curve of the
buttocks where cheeks and thighs meet. This is the ‘sit-spot,’ the part of the
bottom that connects with a chair and the pain will reignite every time
Waterman sits in the coming hours. The boy’ feet stomp up and down like a
soldier on sentry duty, his hips wriggle, the pain is so intense he can’t stop
a yapping sound escaping his throat. Somehow he manages to gasp the words,
‘Four sir.’
‘Feeling these, I hope boy,’ the
headmaster sneers. He pauses as if expecting a response and when he doesn’t get
one he lines up the cane once more and delivers the hardest cut yet to the top
of the curves. Waterman stomps some more and it is only by gripping the seat
cushion for dear life that he stops himself jumping up and dancing from foot to
foot. ‘F..f..five sir.’
The headmaster walks away, stops and once
again admires the marks on the boy’s backside. ‘Final stroke, boy,’ he says,
‘You’ve heard about a headmaster’s caning, haven’t you?’ Waterstone has no idea
what the man is saying, his head throbs almost as much as his buttocks and his
heart is racing, he can feel the blood coursing through his veins. ‘It’s very
special, even if I do say so myself.’
He stands to Waterman’s left and this time
instead of sawing his cane from left to right across both buttocks, he aims it
diagonally so that it taps across all five of the welts that are already
glowing. Waterman’s whole body stiffens as he realises what the headmaster intends
to do. Without further warning the cane strikes across the wounds reigniting
them all. This time Waterman cannot stop himself; he howls. He has never experienced
such agony, it is beyond his power of description. Maybe it’s like having a white-hot
poker pressed into the flesh. He gasps to catch his breath like he is a fish
out of water. He huffs and he puffs trying desperately not to choke.
‘Count, boy,’ the headmaster says
menacingly.
‘G,g,g,g’ the boy’s attempt at speech
fails and then, ‘Six, sir.’
The headmaster glides stately across the
study and returns the cane to the hatstand, then looking across the room at the
well-beaten boy he allows his smug satisfaction to show with a smile. ‘That’s
over. You may get up. Get dressed.’
Waterman hauls himself to his feet, he desperately
wants to rub away at his wounded backside but he won’t give the headmaster the
satisfaction. His watery eyes are full of murderous contempt. How he hates the
headmaster and if looks could kill they would be measuring the man for his
coffin.
Waterman dresses and he has difficulty not
wincing as he pulls up his underpants and trousers and tucks his shirt in. Snot
trickles from his nose and tears fill his eyes. He hates himself for showing
such weakness in front of the headmaster.
The final humiliation comes as the
headmaster offers Waterman his hand to shake and the boy takes it and mutters,
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You may go,’ the headmaster resumes his
seat behind the desk and watches Waterman hobble from the room.
Back in today’s reality Mr Waterman
wriggles in his armchair, he can feel the six stingers throbbing across his
backside. He breathes deeply, settles himself and using the audio control on
his virtual reality kit, he tries to conjure up himself, aged 18, with a cane
in his hand and the headmaster spreadeagled across the desk.
Picture credit: Generated by Artificial Intelligence (A.I.)
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