Added: Candyce Lansberry - Date: 21.02.2022 19:45 - Views: 33601 - Clicks: 5750
So it was when I was in the third form; 3A, the top stream, so I was expected to do well. So the worst we could expect was to have to re-do the learning. We sat in those traditional one-piece school desks with seat and desk all one unit, and I had the good fortune to sit by the wall. Nevertheless, I was slyly looking up enough information to avoid getting below half-marks. Then, out of the silence came a piping voice, a weedy youth called Broster. In the time it took everyone in the room to stop writing and gasp sharply, some in disapproval of my cheating, but I think most in disgust at Broster, Mr Seddon was upon me.
No time to hide the book. If a master found out, there was only one possible outcome; a visit to the headmaster for six strokes of the cane. And a master had found out. More to the point, a very strict master had found out. They meant well, but it was in vain, and it actually made me feel even worse.
Just take it straight to the Head, and wait for his reply, of course. I knew what the cane felt like, but SIX! The only question was, how severe? I reported to the school office. The headmaster was far too important to be disturbed by a mere boy.
It was the secretarial assistant, a snooty girl all of seventeen years old, who spoke to the head on the internal phone. So I was sent across the hallway to stand, very publicly, by the door. Everyone who passed would know why I was waiting, and tradition had it that anyone waiting the wait had to stand with his back to the wall, facing outwards, hands on head. So you had to face the passers by and there was no hiding your blushes. Moreover, despite the humiliation, the fear, and the shame, it would be the ultimate disgrace to shed even the tiniest tear.
Not the friendliest greeting! I entered timidly and looked round the hallowed room. He never called it his study. Last time, the cane was already on the desk. Where was it now? Hurry up, Boy! He read it carefully, tapping it in places with his pen. It was straightforward, so this was a charade to prolong the agony. Believe me when I say owning up is even worse than being punished.
Somehow, I stuttered and mumbled my way through my confession. Mr Fulwood donned his academic gown. He always wore it in public and it seems he thought it appropriate apparel for an execution. Looking back, I think it was meant as a mark of respect for the occasion and, to some extent, also to the boy who was about to be caned.
Opening the cupboard, he reached up to the top shelf and took out a cane. He laid it on the desk in front of him, where I could hardly take my eyes off it. Oh God! This was effing well going to hurt. But first was the ceremonial filling-in of the punishment book, while I had to stand waiting on the trap door, as it were, with absolutely no hope of a last moment reprieve. I could easily guess why, so it was hardly necessary for him to explain.
At least it was almost time for the punishment proper. The preliminaries were beginning to unnerve me. He stood up and came round from behind the desk, picked up the cane and ordered me to bend over. I meekly complied, gripping the far side of the desk as hard as I could. Meanwhile, I could feel Mr Fulwood lifting my school blazer and tucking it up over my back, to leave a clear target for the caning. Then those gentle and almost pleasurable range-finding taps of cane on bottom, as he shuffled to achieve the optimum stance.
When the tapping stops…. The first fraction of a second is strange. You feel the impact but no pain. Then it explodes; a searing, burning agony in your bum cheeks; much, much worse than any spanking. Again, the cane was laid across my cheeks to aim for a good hard stroke. Again, the cane lifted away and then once more that sound, quickly followed by even more excruciating pain as the cane landed squarely on an already tenderised pair of rather thin schoolboy buttocks. Four to go, and the hellish pain was increasing exponentially. But this was so very much worse than my canings.
Not only was he using that longer, thicker cane, but he was also determined to earn every penny of his salary for this caning. The third stroke was like the first two, only worse. Likewise, the fourth. By this time, I remember, I was emitting suppressed grunts as each stroke hit home. That, and repeating the foulest expletives under my breath in an attempt to control the pain and my reactions.
The fifth and sixth strokes were different. The last two strokes would, of course, cause more bruising, so it would take my bottom longer to recover and it would hurt for two or three hours more than if the head had just given me four. At last, my caning was over. The actual execution probably took no more 45 seconds. It just felt like half an hour. Get yourself back to class now, but you might want to go via the toilet block and wash your face.
I never copied again, or did anything else to be really ashamed of. But there were several episodes of relatively harmless schoolboy mischief. So, yes, it did hurt to sit on the hard school seats. And the cane marks still showed faintly on my bottom for over a week. When the sound cut out, the engine had stopped and the bomb started its descent.Schoolboy spanking stories
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