♥ Site recommended story ♥
A brand new caning story by very special guest author Baddlad17. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
It was a shock revelation, to see it, boldly printed in black and white print on the front page of the local newspaper.
Former headmaster arrested
Dr George Willoughby, retired headmaster, was arrested yesterday following accusations of physical assault against several of his former pupils over a number of years. Whilst conducting a search of his property several VHS Tapes depicting images of senior schoolboys in the process of receiving corporal punishment were seized as evidence. The investigation continues into the alleged assaults.
I sat back at my desk and subconsciously my hand slid under my buttocks. It had been more than twelve years ago since it had happened, and I had pushed it far from my mind, but just the mention of his name had revived the memory, and once again I could almost feel the welts, throbbing across my backside, and that overwhelming burning pain that had lingered for hours. The physical marks soon faded, but the mental ones had never truly left me, and despite my best efforts to erase it, this had brought that terrible event right back to me as though it had happened yesterday.
“I am afraid it will have to be the full six, and on the bare given the offence and your seniority in the school.” I stood with my head down, aghast and dismayed before Dr Willoughby while he berated myself and James Baker for breaking the rules. I could hardly believe what he was saying. The cane, on the bare! It was 1995, not the dark ages. Corporal punishment had been abolished in state schools almost seven years before, and since then the majority of private schools had followed suit, leaving just a handful who still retained the right to use it, and it was just bad luck I was a student at one of them.
To round off the humiliation about to befall us we were eighteen-year-old seniors. It was March, the early spring sunshine streaming through the tall window into the airless room starkly reminded me it was just a week away from the Easter holidays. Father had booked a trip to Spain for the break and I was looking forward to spending some time sunning myself and sipping sangria by a pool before returning to sit my A-Level exams in May. But standing before the dour old headmaster intent on whipping an old school cane across my bare arse, my mind was solely focussed upon a more urgent and entirely different fate that was about to befall me.
Baker held his hand up to protest, but he was curtly cut off before he had even spoken a word. “Don’t even bother to try and offer any defence, I know you are both eighteen, and legally entitled to go into a public house, drink alcohol and smoke, but you are also fully aware that all three of those activities are strictly against the rules for students here at the College. I intend one way or another to make an example of you, you are however legally adults, so, the choice is yours. Take your punishments, or you may go. If you choose to leave you will be summarily expelled and will not be permitted to sit your finals. You may take a moment to decide.”
I glanced across at my mate. It had been Baker’s idea to go to the pub in the first place, and it was with grave reservations I had been persuaded to tag along. We would have got away with it too, had we not run into the head’s secretary Mrs Pritchard. She had popped out in her lunch break to the butchers’ shop to get some meat for her husband’s meal and happened to be passing the pub entrance at the very moment we stepped into the street and straight into her path. We knew we were for it. She hated all the boys at the school and was quick to report them for any misdemeanour so, discovering two of the most senior boys leaving a pub she must have felt she had hit the jackpot. The gratifying smirk across her lips was enough evidence to convince me that whatever meat she had purchased, our goose was cooked.
It had come as no surprise to receive the summons to report to Dr Willoughby at the end of school, and so here we found ourselves before him, with an agonising choice to make. The cane on the bare, or expulsion. The head sat in his chair, glaring coldly over his horn-rimmed spectacles at us. I wondered how many boys arses he had thrashed over the years, and whether he enjoyed it. I had never been caned before in my life, I had only joined the College in the sixth, after relocating to Hampshire following my father’s promotion. Baker on the other hand had been a student here for almost seven years and he was no stranger to the rod, but as I later discovered, never before had he been required to lower his clothing.
Over the years the use of the cane had started to be frowned upon. Sensing the mood for change Dr Willoughby had removed the right for masters to use corporal punishment, retaining the ultimate deterrent for himself to administer if it was required, and then only after consulting parents and gaining their approval did the rattan rod descend upon a pair of quivering buttocks prostrate before him.
Nearly all boys summoned for caning were punished with trousers in place, on rare occasions if the miscreant was a recidivist, or the offence particularly heinous he would send for them when he knew they would be having a sports lesson. When this happened, he would attach a note for Mr Nicholls in the gym to direct the boy concerned straight to his study, not allowing him to change into his school uniform. So, when he presented himself he would be clad in just thin cotton PE shorts which provided almost no protection from the piercing bite of the cane. But a thrashing on the bare bottom was indeed a red-letter day, and one that the head would only ever contemplate if the malefactor was eighteen years old, and legally an adult, thus negating the need to contact parents.
I was terrified of getting the cane, but I didn’t want to appear cowardly in front of Baker, nor did I have any wish to be expelled, such an outcome was too horrific to even contemplate, my father would go berserk and my mother would die of shame. I could see the look of disappointment on her face as I stood quaking before the desk. Willoughby looked askingly at Baker. “I will take the cane, sir.” My mate had accepted the thrashing option without a thought, and now all eyes were on me.
What could I say? My head was pounding, my heart pumping wildly in my chest as I plucked up the courage to say the words that would condemn me to an eye-watering beating I would long remember. “The cane sir.” I eventually said, which clearly gratified the headmaster.
“A wise decision, best to get this unsavoury business out of the way.” He stood up and walked across to a tall cabinet in the corner of the window. Opening it up he reached inside and extracted a long slender cane. I estimated it was around three foot in length, including the curved handle. I had never seen one in the flesh before, and the anxious knot in my stomach tightened even more as I watched the head swish it savagely through the air.
“Blazer’s off now and leave them on my desk.” Taking my cue from Baker I nervously fumbled with the buttons of my smart blue blazer, removing it and placing it beside his on the desktop.
“Barratt step back and stand by the wall, Baker, stand behind the leather chair and lower your trousers and underpants down to your ankles, then go over it and present your buttocks for the chastisement they so thoroughly deserve.”
I looked on in stunned silence as my friend complied, unbuckling his belt, unzipping, and allowing his trousers to slope down his legs, and land in a heap at his feet. I held my breath as he slipped his hands inside the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, and then lowered them clear of his arse and southwards to straddle around his ankles. He stretched over the back of the low backed leather chair and placed his palms on the seat cushion, his upthrust buttocks bared and prepared for the stinging justice of the rod. My eyes were fixed on the meaty mounds, firm and muscular, with a dusting of fine, downy hair which was to be expected from a fit athletic lad who was a stalwart of the First XI cricket team.
Dr Willoughby removed his suit jacket and placed it on his chair before stepping across and standing behind and just to the left of Baker wielding the whippy rod with glee. The bastard licked his lips, a sadistic grin etched across his face as he sawed the cane across the centre of the penitent buttocks, which twitched in anticipation of the hurt they were about to feel as he prepared to strike the target. He tapped a few times, taking careful aim, then lifted the rod away, before whipping it back down with the venom of a snake. It swept into the bared cheeks with a will of its own, imprinting a vivid white line that almost instantly turned red as the blood rushed along the bruised flesh. Baker hissed in pain and his cheeks quivered of their own accord.
Pressing on Willoughby gently tapped the cane low down, gaging the distance he prepared to strike again, and with a flick of his wrist he swished the second cut along the crease line of the manly mounds. Baker emitted a low groan but somehow managed to maintain remarkable composure, crisply holding his position despite the intense agony coursing through his buttocks. Strokes three and four fell heavily, slicing fresh streaks of fire between the first two blazing welts. I could hardly watch as the head placed the fifth stroke from lower left to upper right, gating the earlier stripes. The rod struck true sweeping in and intersecting through the cuts which caused my friend to howl aloud. Without waiting for him to regain any composure he aimed the last stroke from the opposite angle and lashed it down with all his might. Baker wailed once again in utter agony. From my vantage point I watched the final stripe swell across the bare arse, leaving a pattern of four horizontal lines and a large X crossing through them.
Dr Willoughby stepped back and admired his handiwork while Baker remained prostrate over the chair, his sizzling buttocks clenching and unclenching of their own accord. I looked on in a state of sheer horror knowing in just a few short moments I would be in the same wretched state. “You may rise and dress boy, Barratt, prepare.”
The back of my shirt was soaked in sweat, despite the room feeling cool. “Come on boy, I haven’t got all day.” Willoughby was gleefully flexing the whippy stick between his hands, limbering up in readiness for the attack. I somehow got my feet moving, swapping places with Baker. His face was purple, his eyes wet with tears and his face creased in pain as we passed one another. Standing behind the chair I stared ahead, unwilling to go any further.
“Take your trousers and underpants down boy and present your bare buttocks for punishment.” He swished the cane through the air and repeated the instruction. Slowly and steadily, I reached for my belt and began to lower my clothing. It took further prompting before I stretched over the chair and placed my hands onto the warm surface of the leather seat which was still moist from Baker’s sweaty palms. Stretching over the apex I was sure my stomach pressed into some sort of sticky residue, it was then I realised Baker had leaked precum as he danced over the chair. While I waited for the pain I stared blankly at the soft leather before me, a large round stain in the middle of the seat clearly produced from the copious tears of countless boys who had been in the same humiliating position over the years. I felt Willoughby placing my shirttail over my back, fully exposing my arse and then the cane was pressed into my bum.
Was this really happening? Here I was, eighteen years old and bent double over the back of a chair, my bare arse pointing upwards, waiting for a grouchy old schoolmaster to whip a cane across it. My old schoolmates would never believe it was possible. The cane lashed down and the pain exploded across my rear, incredible pain which brought tears to my eyes almost immediately. I don’t know how I got through the remaining five strokes. I squealed, squawked, yelped, and bellowed as he flayed my arse raw. I was far from brave, though I did manage to hold my position over the chair, fearful of the consequences should I stand up.
Eventually, the agony came to an end and I was permitted to stand. Tears rolled down my face as I stood before the desk beside Baker to receive the final admonishment. Dismissed we waddled down to the bogs to inspect the damage. I stood with my back to the mirror, craning my neck to glance at the livid welts which blazed fiercely across my backside. At that moment I made a vow never to step foot inside a pub until I had left the College for good.
The stripes lasted well into the Easter holiday and I had to be careful when wearing my trunks that the marks stayed hidden. How could I have explained to my parents what had happened? Within three months I had taken my finals and departed from the College, never to return, nor to give the place a second glance. The encounter with Dr Willoughby had soured my time there and I wanted no further connection to the school.
Reading the headline had left me with mixed emotions, it also brought back a most painful memory I had long ago hidden, but above all, I was left with a feeling of satisfaction. Willoughby had clearly abused his position and finally, the long arm of the law had caught up with him. Justice would be done.