♥ Site recommended story ♥
New to The Canery is this exciting caning story by very special guest author Baddlad17. All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
A Strict Disciplinarian Is Born by Baddlad17
I limped out of the office, my hands hovering over my burning arse, which had just been decorated with twelve savage cane strokes. Tears of woe were falling from my eyes as I struggled to come to terms with the reality of what had just happened, after all, it wasn’t as if I was a naughty schoolboy who had been sent to see the headmaster for punishment. I was a teacher, albeit a junior one and still on probation, but still, I was a twenty-two-year-old man, and I had been forced to drop my shorts and bend over for a severe thrashing that had left my backside blazing like a volcanic eruption.
The year was 1976, and I was in my first term as a junior sports teacher at Deanfields Grammar school. The headmaster Mr Taylor was a strict disciplinarian, with a firm belief in the efficacy of corporal punishment, and as such he used his canes with liberal abandon on the boys under his tutelage. Deanfields was a large school, split into two separate buildings, a prep school that catered for boys from the age of four to eleven, and the main school which housed those aged eleven to eighteen. I had been a student here myself up until my departure for university four years before, and I had been on the receiving end of a caning off Taylor before, as well as several other masters, but I was under the illusion those days were long behind me, how wrong I was.
As part of my duties, I had supervised the Rugby first XV’s away matches the previous weekend, when they had taken part in a national school’s competition. I had persuaded Mr Bell, the senior sports master into letting me take the boys on my own and given the fact he had no real wish to forfeit his weekend looking after a group of hairy rugby lads when he could spend it with his beautiful young wife, he readily agreed, but only after I promised there would be no trouble. And so, in the end I found myself taking the team up to Yorkshire alone. The headmaster had organised for us to be lodged in a youth hostel, close to where the matches would be held. Despite my enthusiasm, Bell worried I might find it a challenge, given my junior status, but I persuaded him I could handle the lads, and there would be no trouble, even if I was a young, inexperienced teacher. He was a little concerned that taking a group of senior boys who were only four or five years younger than me, on a weekend away from the restrictions of their home-lives and the constraints of an all-male school could result in some issues, and he suggested I took a cane with me, in case the lads became too boisterous.
I should have taken his advice, but I was confident it would not be necessary, and besides, I was a young idealistic teacher, who found hitting kids unnecessary, preferring to debate with them. So far I had managed to avoid administering corporal punishment, which was in direct contrast to Mr Bell who caned and slippered boys both in and out of the gym, for even the slightest misdemeanour. It was well-known that he never let a boy off a whacking once he had decided to award one, and he doled them out with undisguised pleasure.
But I was different, and the boys were starting to learn that. The senior team were aware of this too and once they learned I alone would be supervising them, they decided to take advantage. Inevitably a couple of the lads sneaked some alcohol into their cases, and on the second night, they had several illicit drinks in the dormitory. If that had been the end of it no one, including me would have known anything about it, but the alcohol in their systems gave them the courage to go further and a number of them decided to shin down the drainpipe and head off into the nearby town to try their luck with the local girls. Needless to say, the local lads didn’t like them muscling in on their honeys and there had been an ensuing fight in the pub, involving two of the players and a couple of the local boys. The police had been called, the boys were arrested and the first I was aware of any of this was when I was woken at three am by the superintendent of the hostel, who informed me police officers waiting to see me.
I was livid as I drove to the station, and upon seeing Andrew Wiltshire and Wayne Handley I could barely hold my temper. The journey back to the hostel was conducted in stony silence, and as soon as we returned I sent the boys to bed, requesting to see them the following morning after breakfast when they could explain themselves. By the following day I had calmed down and I spoke with the entire squad, making them aware of my displeasure with their behaviour. I then saw the two ringleaders and asked them to explain. They ended up apologising and after a brief ticking off I dismissed them, with a warning that any further trouble would see me reporting it to Mr Bell.
I thought that was the end of it, but alas the superintendent from the hostel was furious that the police had been called, worrying it would look bad on the establishment and could discourage other schools from using him in the future. He decided to telephone the headmaster and made his displeasure known, even threatening to no longer accept any bookings from Deanfields. So, by the time Monday came around the head was fully aware of the incident and summoned me to his study to explain. He questioned me closely and when I admitted I had simply ticked the boys off I thought he was about to have an apoplectic fit. His face went puce, and his eyes bulged as he raged at me.
YOU JUST TOLD THEM OFF AND THAT WAS IT!! Are you a bloody man or a mouse? Those boys need a damn good thrashing, if you can’t or won’t do it, then maybe you need to find a new post. I will not have any of those soft-touch policies that are infecting schools around the country infiltrating Deanfields Grammar, do you hear me, Mr Simmonds? Step outside and tell Miss Robinson to send a note to Wiltshire and Handley to attend my study immediately. I will show you what needs to be done.
I felt my heart skipping a beat as I timidly informed the secretary that Mr Taylor wished to see the boys and ten minutes later the two seniors were standing beside me in the headmaster’s study, receiving a thorough dressing down for their behaviour.
I won’t tolerate this. I have thought long and hard this morning about whether to suspend you, pending expulsion from this august establishment, however, given your seniority in the school and the fact it would impact greatly upon your future careers I have reluctantly decided to let you off with a caning. That said gentlemen, it will be a thrashing you won’t forget. Six each, bare breech.
The sharp intake of breath from the lads suggested it would be their first bare canings. Taylor did thrash on the bare, but it was not something he did too frequently, reserving such testing treatment for recidivists or serious transgressors. He obviously felt their behaviour fell into the latter category and they merited this treatment.
Mr Simmonds will remain to witness how I deal with delinquents who bring the good name of the school into disrepute, and perhaps in the future he will see fit to perform this duty himself should it happen when he is the master in charge.
I felt the colour flood to my cheeks as I stood alongside the two lads. I could not help but feel as though I was due a swishing too. Mr Taylor opened a drawer in his desk and extracted a leather-bound punishment book which I recalled from my visits when I had been a student. He flicked through the pages until he reached the last one, picked up a pen from his desk and began to write their details into it. I sensed the fear and anxiety building up as the lads prepared to face their torment. Having completed the entries, he stood up and walked across towards a bookcase in the far corner of the room. Opening a drawer, he reached inside, and we heard the distinctive rattle of rattan canes as he rifled through to find a suitable weapon. Three times he extracted rods and swished them menacingly through the air until he found one he felt was fit for purpose.
He pointed the cane in our direction before giving his final instructions.
Wiltshire, turn around and face the wall, Handley stand in front of the desk, remove your blazer, take down your trousers and underpants, then bend right over the top. Mr Simmonds, step back and observe how I deal with hooligans.
I felt a great deal of sympathy as Handley began to carry out the head’s instructions. The lad was eighteen years, tall, dark, and handsome, sporting a five-o-clock shadow around his face that denoted he was no longer a boy, yet he stood in front of the desk, and meekly lowered his dark grey trousers, and then after a slight hesitation, his underpants followed the same downward path, exposing a pair of hairy legs, muscular thighs, and meaty buttocks. From my viewpoint I could clearly see his large cock, swinging like a pendulum in front of the desk, and once he bent over I was given an unobstructed view of his hairy arsecrack as his cheeks parted. The bulbous mounds were fully bared and awaiting the retribution of the headmaster’s stick.
Taylor lined the cane up and held it across the quivering mounds in quiet contemplation for a moment, then without warning the stick was lifted high and returned to smack across the target, burrowing deep into the manly mounds. The sharp intake of breath from Handley assured me the stroke had hurt, and when lifted away a white line faintly appeared across the surface of his buttocks, before turning red as the blood rushed to the bruise. The second stroke hit the spot, just barely below the first, almost overlapping, and the third confirmed to me the head was incising the cuts into a tight band of flesh that the boy would feel for days to come.
The second set of six targeted a fresh band of flesh, lower down near the crease, with each one forcing a squeal of agony from the victim, and by the time the final stroke had left its burning message Handley was slumped over the desk, his naked buttocks quivering as he struggled to hold it together.
Get up, and cover yourself, Mr Wiltshire if you please. The headmaster flexed his cane, and cruelly swiped it through the air while the boys’ changed places. Handley’s eyes were blazing, and his cheeks were wet where tears had seeped from his eyes, while his backside looked incredibly sore and glowed fiercely.
With one pair of smarting buttocks covered, I watched as Wiltshire dropped his trousers and bared his arse for the fires of hell. Also, aged eighteen, Andrew Wiltshire was not a bad lad, he was cheeky and always involved in some sort of mischief, but he did not deserve the terrible fate coming his way. Bent across the desk, his beefy buttocks jutted out at the perfect angle for the head’s ministrations. While Taylor held the cane across his cheeks I closed my eyes, wishing to shut out the image of the cane slicing across his good-looking arse, but the first cut forced my eyes open in time to see the band of pain as it abraised the naked flesh.
Wiltshire wasn’t as brave as Handley, and after the third stroke, he roared in pain. The fourth, fifth and sixth strokes burned into the lower portion of his buttocks had him howling like a wolf, baying to the moon, and by the time he was permitted to stand, his eyes were red, with tears falling freely down his face. I felt for the lad with the dimpled cheeks, his normally cheeky smirk was nowhere to be seen as he struggled to cope with the pain raging across his arse.
Get your trousers up and stand in front of my desk, Handley come here and stand beside your friend, and no rubbing better just yet.
Standing side by side the sobbing lads, waited in misery to be dismissed.
Let this be a warning to you, and the rest of the Rugby squad. If anything like this happens again, the perpetrators will be expelled, is that clear? Return to your classes and hopefully, the stripes and the fires burning across your bottoms will focus your minds to behave when representing the school in future, you may go.
As the boys turned to go I thanked the headmaster and turned to follow them.
Just a moment Mr Simmonds, I would like a word before you depart.
His icy tone assured me this would be no friendly chat, and so it proved. With the boys out of the way, Taylor laid into me.
Mr Simmonds, today you have some choices to make, and let’s hope for your sake that they are the right ones. I hold you personally responsible for what has just transpired, indeed had you followed Mr Bell’s lead I doubt those boys would have dared to leave the hostel, let alone indulge in a fight in a public bar. The guilty have been punished as you have just witnessed, but I feel a debt still has to be paid by yourself as well. Now, you are not one of the schoolboys, or, perhaps a stiff caning would be acceptable, but as you are a member of my staff I feel I have no option but to set in place a disciplinary procedure, which may ultimately lead to your dismissal. Have you anything to say?
What do you want me to say, sir. Sorry, I never meant for this to happen.
Take responsibility man, by rights you should resign and save yourself the stigma of being dismissed, that won’t look good on your CV when you apply for a new position, and of course, a reference will be out of the question. However, we could save all of this unpleasantness if you wish to accept an alternative solution.
The head was throwing me a lifeline.
We could sort this out off the record, after all, you are a young teacher, only a few years older than those boys I have just swished. What I could offer might seem unconventional, but it could be worth considering. If I were to retain your services, you must first agree to start using corporal punishment on the boys to keep them in line. Discipline is an essential tool in our school’s armoury and here at Deanfields, we pride ourselves on the zero-tolerance approach. From now on you will employ traditional methods to control your classes, and secondly, you will submit to a memorable caning delivered by myself this afternoon. Before you agree it will be very severe, I hold you more culpable than the boys I have just beat, and as such your punishment will be double, a full dozen strokes, on the bare of course. The choice is yours.
My legs turned to jelly and my stomach twisted in knots as I agonised over the road to take. Twelve strokes of the cane, bare arse was going to hurt, but what about the other options. If I resigned any new employer would question why I had chosen to leave Deanfields after such a short period, and as the head had already pointed out if I was dismissed my career was effectively over. Taylor was tapping his fingers on his desk, demanding I make the decision. I loved my job, and I had spent many happy years as a pupil, now all I wanted was to offer my services as a teacher. There was only one option, and it was going to be a painful one, but, I argued I had been thrashed before and I would survive.
I will take the offer of the cane please sir.
Taylor smirked sardonically as he glared at me.
Wise choice Mr Simmonds, return here at four-thirty, Miss Robinson will have departed for the day, the school will be almost empty, and we will not be disturbed. It will remain strictly confidential, and no one will ever know, now if you would like to return to your department, I shall see you this afternoon.
I struggled to concentrate for the remainder of the day, and yet for the first time, I decided to follow the head’s instructions and brought out the large plimsoll to slipper two first-year boys for fooling around. They were shocked when I called their names to come to the front of the gym and proceeded to give them a tongue lashing. The rest of the class were stunned into silence, never having seen me bollock anyone so fiercely before. And they were even more shocked when I retrieved the punishment plimsoll from the gym store and ordered the miscreants to touch their toes. I gave them two solid strokes each and when they stood their hands gravitated towards their smarting backsides. The class remained subdued for the rest of the lesson, but while they were changing back into their uniforms I wandered into the changing room and spotted two red bottoms emerging from the shower. The sight reminded me of my upcoming appointment later in the day, though I was sure my arse would be in a considerably worse condition than either of them.
By the time I arrived at the headmaster’s study I was a nervous wreck. All afternoon the anxious knot in my stomach had tightened as I contemplated the ordeal ahead. The school was quiet, with just a few members of staff around as I made the long and lonely walk to the head’s inner sanctum, feeling like a man on his way to the execution chamber. I recalled the times I had done the journey as a boy, knowing the fate that awaited me once I arrived and was summoned inside.
Upon knocking Mr Taylor called me in immediately, once inside he was brisk and professional.
Sign this document Mr Simmonds, it is just an insurance policy to protect me should you decide to renege on this agreement.
He pushed the document towards me, then strode across the room, turning the key in the door. After closing the curtains, he retrieved a long, slender cane from the mantle shelf over the fireplace and tapped it across his palm while glaring at me. I stood before the desk, fearfully awaiting the next instructions.
Right, let’s get this over and done with. Lower your shorts and any underpants, then go over the desk, backside up high.
What could I do? I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my sports shorts and lowered them and my pants down to my knees, then stretched over the desktop and waited for the head to do his worst. I heard him swishing the cane through the air several times, then he was tapping it across my naked flesh, the touch heightening the nerve endings as I waited with bated breath for the onslaught.
Stay down Simmonds, there will be twelve strokes as agreed. The moment he finished speaking the cane was lifted away, I heard a thin swish, then my arse was on fire. The cane fell steadily time and again, with each stroke lancing in close to the previous one in descending parallels down my exposed flesh. The band of pain was unbelievable, and the agony increased with each succeeding cut. If I thought the first six were bad enough, the second set was undisguised agony. I could no longer keep quiet and yelled lustily as the rod branded my arse. The final two cuts were diagonals, and I reached the end of my endurance. I was a grown man, but the pain was so intense I ended up crying like a little boy.
Get up and cover yourself, Mr Simmonds. The head moved around the desk and sat himself down as I struggled to stand up. My arse was blazing like hell, and I know I winced as I adjusted my pants and shorts over my scorched flesh.
The incident is now at an end, and nothing will be recorded. You may leave when ready, and we can forget about this, but I do hope that you will learn from it, and from now on I expect, no demand that you similarly deal with the boys, in the same manner, you have just been dealt with, do you understand?
With bitter tears dripping down my face I mumbled my understanding before turning and hobbling from the study. Once outside I gripped firmly onto my bum and hissed as a wave of pain overcame me. Once I was a little more composed I hobbled off towards the school exit, desperate to escape, and get home where I could soothe and comfort my wounds.
That day I reached the decision to toughen up with the boys, and in the following days and weeks the change in my attitude took each class by surprise, and they discovered that I could be pretty handy with both the slipper and the cane. My reputation as a strict disciplinarian was soon common knowledge and the earlier weakness I had portrayed was confined to history. Within weeks I received a summons back to the heads study, but this time to be congratulated on my improved performance. My position at Deanfields Grammar was confirmed, and my job was secure for years to come.
Story ©MMXXII by Baddlad17, and used here by very kind permission of the author.
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters, institutions and businesses appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.