Bring back the cane

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Scenes we’d like to see (or wishful thinking)


The staff lounge of Albion Academy was quiet, it was lunchtime and most of teachers were in classrooms working their way through piles of paperwork. Monthly assessments were due. Mr Whitfield, merely months away from his pension was not one of them. He sat in a battered armchair, eyelids closed, his hands serenely placed on his lap. Opposite him sit Mr Hancock, still in his twenties and restless, leafed through the Daily Telegraph. The headlines disagreed with him and he became increasingly irritated.

Suddenly, he cried, “Ha! Look at this! Says here more than seventy percent of people surveyed want to bring back the cane in schools.” Whitfield suppressed a sigh. He would not get involved. Unperturbed by the silence, Hancock continued, “Even the majority of the kids want it,” he said with a note of triumph. “Quite right too!”

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools thirty years previously, before Hancock had been born. The impending anniversary had prompted renewed discussion about the state of discipline in the land. Hancock was “old guard.” He believed in law and order and respect for elders and betters (especially schoolmasters).

“It would do this place a lot of good,” he spread his arms to encompass the room so Whitfield would understand he meant Albion Academy. “Used to be a fine school. A grammar. Best in the town. Respected. Now look at it.”

Whitfield would not be goaded. Could he pretend to be asleep? Hancock sighed as if he carried the burden of the entire universe on his shoulders. “No discipline nowadays, none at all.” He pored over the details in the news report. “Pah!” he exclaimed, “Everyone wants it except the damned politicians. Well if I had my way …”

He hesitated. Perhaps it would not be wise to share with colleagues what he would do if he had his way. Several of them would be making their way to the job centre to seek new careers; along with half the administrators and all of the politicians. School masters (as he insisted on thinking of himself, although all his colleagues were happy to be called “teachers”) were given no support these days. What discipline was there? How were they supposed to punish misbehaviour? If you wanted to put a kid in detention you had to send a note home to their parents. Then, maybe – just maybe – two days later they might condescend to turn up. Or not. Then what could a teacher do? Nothing. The next step up on the discipline ladder was “exclusion” – they used to call that suspension in the good old days. Or even expulsion. No chance today. The school didn’t want that on its record. Exclusions meant the school was failing. Well, it was bloody failing. It was churning out nothing but hooligans. He could cry. Albion Academy sold itself as a school with “standards.” It was enough to make Jesus weep, Hancock thought.

Hancock looked to the past. He knew his history. When Albion had been a grammar school, and not so very long ago, it had been a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline: the cane! Today the school had to follow the national curriculum; where was Latin and Greek? (not that Hancock himself spoke either of these dead languages). They still had a uniform but back in the day when it was an all-boys’ school they wore short trousers even in the third form until they were fourteen. Proper shorts. Neatly tailored trousers that came to just above the knee. And long socks too. They could do a lot worse than bring that uniform back. If Hancock had his way they’d all wear short trousers, right up until the day they left school. The seniors as well. They might be eighteen years old (some of them even nineteen), but they weren’t adults. Not yet. They were children and they ought to look like children. These days they were indulged to think they were adults; that they had “rights”. They had no rights, they only had responsibilities and the first of these was to do as they were damn well told by their elders and betters.

Whitfield eyes remained closed and his hands rested on his lap. He had no idea of the turmoil inside Hancock’s head. The young man’s heart was racing, anger was rising in his body. He clutched the newspaper tightly. Why, he thought, if he had his way. What he would do. The boys would wish they had never been born. And he would start with those louts in the school football team.

Albion had recently won a new (but apparently prestigious) soccer tournament among schools in the region. Hancock thought members of the team had become insufferable. They had been superior and self-centred (like all kids at the school) before but their success took this to new levels of arrogance; nobody could claim to be their equal (let along superior) and Hancock, the young teacher still making his way at the school, suffered more than many.

This was Hancock’s first appointment. He was the youngest member of staff. When he first arrived some of his older colleagues had joked injudiciously that were he to dress in a school uniform he would be indistinguishable from the senior lads. One or two of the elder ladies “mothered” him a little, to his intense irritation.

With the staff seemingly patronising him Hancock took to exerting his authority on the kids. He could succeed with the youngest; to them a man in his twenties was ancient. The older ones had no such illusions. Mostly, they ignored him; the sixth-formers – the most senior students in the school – disdained him. Students!, how Hancock hated that word. They were not students, they were school pupils.

Now, he read the newspaper story once more; carefully. Yes, bring back the cane. What he wouldn’t do then. Those sixth formers would catch it hot. Especially the players in the football team. Especially that Bagnis; the worst of the lot: arrogant, self-opinionated, cocksure. Hancock’s breathing hardened. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he could see it now.

Bagnis stands in the gymnasium changing room, he is alone. There is a faint aroma of stale sweat about the place that he hardly notices. Hancock is in the adjacent office. He peers through a connecting window, not hiding his loathing for the eighteen-year-old. Oh, how he needs taking down a peg or two. Well, now is the time. The law has been changed (no, better, it had never been passed. The cane had never been abolished. Schoolboys still knew their place.)

Hancock turns away from the window. Standing snugly in one corner of the room is a tall thin cupboard. It is unlocked. There is no need for a lock as no boy in the school will dare go near it. Hancock opens the door, he does not hurry. He has all the time in the world, Bagnis is going nowhere, not until Hancock says so. There are five whippy punishment canes hanging on a rail, of various lengths and thicknesses. Each one has the traditional curved handle. Above them on a shelf are three leather straps; two of them are traditional Lochgelly tawes, one cut with two tails, the other with three. The tawes so beloved by Scottish schoolmaster and equally loathed by their charges are ancient and worn. They belong to Mr MacTaggart, one of Hancock’s older colleagues. He alone uses them, the preferred weapon of choice among masters is the cane. That said, a huge, size twelve dirty-white, rubber-soled gym plimsoll is propped up against the back of the cupboard. The sports masters use this for instant punishments on the younger boys.

Hancock handles each of the whippy rattan canes in turn. He is familiar with them all, but he likes how they feel in his hand. He takes one out of the cupboard and flexes it between his hands. As always it bends easily and forms an almost perfect arc. He replaces it and takes out a second. This is a little denser than the first. It is dark-yellow and not quite three feet in length (Hancock refuses to use metric measurements). It is as thick as a pencil and his heart judders when he swishes it through the empty air. This is his favourite. Lovingly, he tucks it under his arm and quietly closes the cupboard door. He turns and once more looks through the window. Bagnis is standing, hands behind back, eyes downcast at the floor: it is, Hancock agreeably notes, the perfect naughty-boy posture.

He strides through the connecting door into the changing room. Bagnis raises his head; his face pales, thereby acknowledging that he has seen the cane under Hancock’s arm. It confirms his expectations: corporal punishment in the form of a caning is imminent. Hancock slips the cane into his hand and taps it gently against his own right leg. Tap-tap-tap. Bagnis cannot help himself, his eyes hypnotically follow the cane.

Hancock looks at Bagnis. He is the Bagnis of today; he is tall and beefy. He has a clear open face and his arrogant hazel eyes shine. He still has the tattoos down his right arm. It is Bagnis; but he is also altogether different. His hair is cut short in a conventional style. He is dressed in a traditional grey shirt and a darker-grey sleeveless pullover. He wears mid-grey, tailored short trousers. They fall to a couple of inches above the knee. Hancock smiles. The uniform gives his fantasy a nice touch. This is school uniform as it should be.

He swipes the cane through the air and then wobbles it in front of Bagnis before he turns and points across the room. Standing there is a leather vaulting horse. It is about four feet off the ground with four short and sturdy wooden legs. Hancock has no idea when it became a tradition at the school for masters to deliver beatings in the changing room. It may have been a matter of necessity. Masters do not have their own private studies and the staff lounge and classrooms are too public. The gymnasium is in a building of its own tucked away from prying eyes. Its location adds to the drama; a boy sent to wait at the gym is left in no doubt about his fate.

Bagnis is one such boy. He is to be beaten. He knows this. Mr Hancock is in charge. His word is law. When he says “bend over”, then over you bend. No questions asked; no quarter given. It is what it is. There is a reason they are called school masters.

“Stand by the horse, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. Sorrowfully, but submissively, the egotistical sixth-former takes the three steps needed to cross the room. He stands close to the horse, towering over the worn, leather top. His breathing is heavy. So is Hancock’s. Hancock swishes the cane once more and then thwacks it across the top of the horse, a thin line imprints into the leather. Hancock allows himself a slight smile. He knows Bagnis will soon have similar lines throbbing across his backside. It gives him great satisfaction to know Bagnis also knows this. “Bend over, lad, you know how it’s done.”

Indeed he does. This is not his first thrashing and although he only has a few more weeks until he takes his exams and leaves Albion for ever he knows it probably won’t be the last. He lets the tip of his tongue run over his dry, cracked lips before he leans forward. Because he is tall and the horse relatively low, Bagnis spreads his legs wide so his stomach can rest comfortably across the leather top. He grips the two legs of the horse and concentrates on the dirty carpet beneath his nose. He tries to block out his surroundings. He knows the best way to get through this ordeal is to try to ignore what is going on.

Hancock allows Bagnis to settle. The boy’s buttocks jut out at a perfect angle and height. The tail of his shirt has slipped out of the waistband of his short trousers and although there is no practical necessity to do this, Hancock takes hold of both the shirt and the pullover and pushes them further away from the short trousers. This exposes an area of naked flesh on Bagnis’s lower back. Although he tries not to notice, Bagnis feels exposed; more vulnerable.

z used gym short trousers cane horse (3)

Hancock grips the waist of the short trousers and tugs vigorously. Now, they fit snugly and each buttock cheek is clearly defined under the material. Bagnis stays still. He shuts his mouth firmly and closes his eyes. He is ready. But, Hancock is not yet. He takes up a position to the left of the boy and taps the cane across the centre of his buttocks. The cane is warped through age and use. The far tip is frayed. Hancock cannot be certain his aim will be true. He saws it across the lower part of the cheeks. The short trousers have back pockets and Hancock fears this will afford Bagnis protection from the sting of the rod. Hancock knows he must make the strokes land below these and well into the sensitive “sit spot” where the cheeks meet he thighs. If his aim is true Bagnis will reignite the welts every time he tries to sit down for many hours to come.

Hancock saws some more, then he lifts the cane away from the seat of Bagnis’s short trousers and raises it in an arc. The ceiling is high and there is plenty of room to swing a cane. He holds it for a second at its highest point and then using all the strength in his upper body, he flogs it with great force across the lower buttocks. A thick line instantly digs into the stretched material of the short trousers. Bagnis reaction is imperceptible, the merest shudder in his shoulders speaks to the intense pain he feels. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to ignore the inferno in his bottom.

Hancock grimaces. He expects more reaction. Clearly, he thinks, that stroke was not hard enough. Maybe, he tells himself, he carelessly struck the pocket. He takes careful aim, lower this time. The cane rises and falls, the noise of the thwack of rattan cane across stretched backside rolls around the room. Bagnis wriggles his hips and grips the legs of the horse. If he dared open his eyes he would see his knuckles are turning white. His once pale face is now scarlet as surely are his throbbing buttocks beneath the short trousers.

Hancock is disappointed. He wants to hear Bagnis howling, to see him wriggling and writhing across the horse. He wants him to beg for mercy. Hancock lays a third stroke across Bagnis’s by-now quivering rump. It is the hardest yet. Bagnis thinks his  head is about to burst open. His buttocks are flailed. Can he feel blood weeping from the wounds? With magnificent self-control, he stifles the yells his body demands he must make. He will not cry out, he will not give the schoolmaster the satisfaction.

Hancock delivers six of his best. Never before in his short history as a schoolmaster has he flogged a boy so well. Still, Bagnis appears unperturbed by the ordeal. Hancock’s temper rises. So, he says, the boy is so arrogant and insolent that even a caning won’t change him. “Stand up, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. With difficulty, because it feels like his backside is blazing like the fires of Hell, the boy climbs to his feet. He leans against the horse to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He fears he will not be able to walk unaided from the gym. The room swirls around him so that he hardly hears the words spoken by his master.

“Well, Bagnis,” Hancock snarls. “It seems that beating didn’t quite have the intended effect.” He wobbled the cane up and down in front of Bagnis before pointing it at the boy’s middle. “Take down those shorts, and bend back over.”

Hancock steps away from the horse and looks on at the boy from a distance. Without a murmur, but with unsteady hands, the eighteen-year-old reaches for his belt. It takes several tries before it is unfastened. The button on the waistband is even harder to deal with. “Bah!” Hancock ejaculates with genuine anger, “Get on with it. Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?”

The threat spurs Bagnis on to success. The top of the short trousers are undone and the fly buttons burst when he tugs. They lunge to his feet. Hancock is delighted at the sight before him. Bagnis is wearing gleaming-white, cotton Y-front underpants. “Bend over, boy.” The cane wobbles some more.

Sore and aching, Bagnis turns his back and with super-human effort he flops back over the horse, once more gripping the wooden legs. Hancock notices the pink botches in the otherwise white underpants. There are also two heavy, dark-red stripes throbbing in the bare flesh below the smooth cotton. Hancock smiles. In the distance he hears a bell ringing. Afternoon school is about to start. He flexes the cane and saws it across the fleshiest part of the bum.

“Come on Hancock, wake up, are you sleeping?” It was the voice of Whitfield. “Classes are starting. You mustn’t be late. The little buggers will destroy the classroom if you’re not there.” Hancock threw down the newspaper with disgust and dragged himself to his feet.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The boy from the Accounts department

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Scenes we’d like to see: or wishful thinking


Ted filled his mouth with a forkful of meat pie, then leaned across the table at his workmate. He chewed vigorously and taking great care not to spit bits of food at his companion he waved his hand and pointed across the canteen.

“Look at that,” he grumbled. His mate Harry had his back to the action, “Wor?” he spluttered tea down his chin as he spoke.

“There,” Ted nodded vigorously. His evident unhappiness prompted Harry to swivel in his seat to try to see what all the fuss was about. “There,” Harry repeated, “It’s that boy from Accounts, just look at him.” Ted’s face was slowly turning scarlet, he was an angry old man.

The boy from Accounts was giving the woman behind the counter a hard time. She was trying to serve the boy his dinner, but he found much to complain about. And, he didn’t mind venting his anger on the small, cowering woman in front of him.

“What a bully,” Ted raged with disgust. “Why doesn’t he pick on someone his own size?”

Harry straightened up in his chair and returned to eating his suet pudding and custard. “I know him,” he stated, meaning the boy from Accounts. “His an arrogant sod. Goes round like he owns the place,” he forced a spoonful of dough into his mouth and chewed energetically.

Ted grabbed a slice of bread, folded it in two and mopped gravy from his plate. Before he stuffed it into his mouth, he said, “He’s upset a lot of people. Too full of himself. He’s only been here five minutes.” He chewed on his bread and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “University graduate,” he sneered. “They’re all the same. Think they’re better than the rest of us.”

“Pah!” Harry accidentally spat pudding onto the Formica-topped table. “He needs taking down a peg or two.” He wiped pudding from his chin with the back of his hand, “I know what I’d like to do and no mistake!”

“What’s that?” Ted asked, genuinely puzzled. Harry grinned, showing Harry the contents of his mouth. It was not a pretty sight. “You know, damn well, what I’d do. If he were one of my own. I wouldn’t stand for it. He needs to know his place. Learn to respect his elders. That’s what I think.”

“Ha!” Ted laughed. “What like you did with your boy, d’ya mean? When he gave your Gloria all that grief.”

“Too right,” Harry laughed too. “He didn’t try it on with his mother again after that. I damn good spanking, and I didn’t care that he was nineteen years old.”

“Ha!” Ted’s shoulders heaved. “If only!” He paused, thinking hard, “I don’t suppose his dad cares, he’s probably just as arrogant. Probably where he gets it from.”

“No, suppose not,” Harry had become reflective. “But give me half a chance and I’d march over there right now and take him across my knee.”

Ted nodded his agreement. “If only. Back in the day a young whippersnapper like him wouldn’t have dared cheek his boss. Not today. They get away with murder.”

Harry shook his head sadly. “The world’s going to hell in a handcart. No respect young people. They know no discipline. Who is there to correct them.?”

They each sipped their tea sharing a moment of reflection. Then Harry saw a figure, an older man in a crumpled suit, enter the canteen. “Here,” he smiled, “Now there’s a man I bet who wouldn’t mind doing his duty. Mr Gregory, the office manager. He looks the type.”

Mr Gregory smiled and nodded to the lady behind the counter and was politeness itself as she shovelled peas onto his plate. He peered across the room, noticed an empty table and shuffled across the room toward it, unaware of two pairs of eyes watching him go. As he sat and settled himself he became aware of three youngsters at a table nearby. One, the boy from Accounts, was criticising his fellows over something Mr Gregory could not hear. He sighed and attacked his breaded cod with his knife. That kid Richardson, he mused, he’s been nothing but trouble since he arrived. He wouldn’t mind but he wasn’t even an especially talented worker. Always making mistakes.

Damn, Mr Gregory, winced. If only things were different. His mind wandered as he tucked into his fish and chips. He is back in his office, it is that afternoon. He shifts through a document, shaking his head sorrowfully. So many mistakes. It will have to be redone. He summons Richardson from Accounts. The boy stands in front of him, hands meekly held behind his back, his head slightly bowed. Mr Gregory leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. He peers at the boy. “Not good enough,” he growls, “Not good at all.”

Richardson blushes. He knows his boss is correct. Mr Gregory shifts his buttocks on his hard chair and leans forward over his desk, “It’s not the first time, is it?” It sounds like a question but is really a statement. Mr Gregory gives no time for a response. “What did I say last time? What did I say would happen?” He pauses this time for an answer but the boy can only blush. “A spanking!” Mr Gregory answers his own question. “Oh, but Sir …” Richard wails. “Please.”

Mr Gregory hauls himself from his chair. “Not good enough. Not good enough.” He is lost for words. What more is there he can say? “You know the rules, Richardson.” The boy’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes. He mouths the words, “Oh Sir,” seeking pity.

“Right lad,” Mr Gregory is in no mood for mercy. “Stand over here,” he takes three paces across the office towards the table where the printer is. He sweeps it aside with his arm to give him the space he needs. Sorrowfully, Richardson follows. His face is scarlet and his eyes begin to moisten. “Right lad, take those trousers down.” Richardson’s mouth gapes, his face contorts, he wants to protest. He wants to exclaim, “I’m twenty-two years old!” He wants to run from the office. He does none of these things. The world is not like that. Mr Gregory is the boss. Mr Gregory is an old man. Mr Gregory is in charge. He, Richardson, must submit. He must obey. He has no choice, it is the order of things.

Richardson pouts. His mind is befuddled. He is not thinking clearly. What he does know is that he does not want to show his boss his underpants. It is bad enough being spanked by an older man, but trousers down! Even so, he makes no protest. He takes hold of the buckle of his belt and struggles to get it open. His neat, pin-striped business trousers fit snugly. He often admires the reflection of his own bottom in mirrors. It is his best asset. He undoes the clasp at the waistband and pulls the zipper. The weight of keys and a wallet in his pocket sends the trousers hurtling to his feet. He pauses. His temples throb, this cannot be happening.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Gregory walks across the office back to his desk. There, he finds a heavy ruler. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. It is 30-cemtimetres long and made of stout plastic and will make an excellent spanking paddle.

“I said bend over, we haven’t got all afternoon. There’s work to be done,” Mr Gregory slaps the ruler into the palm of his left hand, enjoying the Smack! noise it creates. Richardson closes his eyes tightly and then opens them, as if he is hoping this is all a dream and if he blinks enough it will all go away. Of course, nothing happens.

“Bend over,” Mr Gregory orders once more. Richardson takes a deep breath and turns to face the table. He is a tall boy and the table is low. It was not designed for spanking. Unsure how to do this, Richardson leans forward and places his elbows on the table, he arches his back and parts his legs a little. Like this his bottom sticks out behind him. Mr Gregory is still at the other side of the office watching. The boy’s position isn’t how he imagined it would be. He had in mind the lad bent across the back of a huge leather armchair, his head low and his bottom raised high. But they are not in some old-fashioned headmaster’s study, this is a modern office. He must adapt to the furniture that is available.

Mr Gregory approaches the table. Now that he is standing right behind Richardson he realises that he is in a perfect position to be spanked. The bottom is presented at a good height, the buttocks are taut. He has very little meat back there. His blue cotton underpants cover the buttocks almost like a second skin. There are some wrinkles in the material so Mr Gregory tugs at the elasticated waistband so the pants ride up into Richardson’s crack at the same time lifting and separating each cheek.

The boy breaths heavily. The buttocks tighten. Richardson is wearing a formal shirt and the tail is long, so Mr Gregory takes hold of it and with great ceremony he lifts and folds it up the boy’s back until it rests at the shoulders. He sees the back is smooth and hairless.

Mr Gregory takes up position to Richardson’s left hand side. He can hear his heavy breathing. The aroma of deodorant, or possibly hair product, wafts into Mr Gregory’s nostrils. It makes him a little giddy. He hasn’t planned to do this, but anyway he cups his right hand and with it he gently caresses first Richardson’s right cheek and then the left. The buttocks tense. Mr Gregory enjoys the feel of the hard flesh and is reminded of two rubber balls. He slaps each cheek in turn then transfers the ruler into his right hand and lightly taps it across the highest point on the left cheek. Richardson’s shoulders tense, he sucks down on his bottom lip. As he does this Mr Gregory raises the ruler high and rather like a golfer he swings it back with speed so that it connects with Richardson’s bum making a resounding whack!

Mr Gregory is relieved that the ruler hasn’t broken. He swipes it again with just as much energy. Richardson closes his eyes tight. He is hurting but he doesn’t want his boss to see. Mr Gregory stands closer and pushes his left hand into the small of Richardson’s back, pinning him into position. He lets fly with a dozen or more rapid whacks; rat-a-tat-tat. The pain quickly accumulates and the heat in the boy’s backside rises. He wriggles but the boss has his gripped tightly. The slaps rain down.

z used ruler pants table office magic spanking factory

Richardson’s buttocks are small and pert and Mr Gregory quickly covers every square centimetre of them. He concentrates on the crests of the mounds where there is most flesh. He gets an urge to grip the waistband and tug the pants to the boy’s knee to continue the spanking on the bare bum. Some sense of propriety stops him. It wouldn’t be right to have an employee naked in his office.

That doesn’t stop him from slapping the ruler into the back of Richardson’s naked thighs. Very quickly the flesh turns rosy pink and then a darker red. The boy’s knees buckle and he lets out a series of gasps that quickly grow to groans. That hurt. That really hurt. Good, Mr Gregory thinks, he’s feeling it now. Perhaps, he will work harder and stop being such a pain in the arse to his colleagues in future. He smiles at the phrase pain in the arse.

“Are you learning your lesson Richardson,” he asks as the ruler flies. His arm is aching, soon he will be forced to stop. “Yes, Sir,” the boy gasps. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.” Mr Gregory is not so sure so he lands another dozen whacks into the underside of the left cheek and another twelve on the right. He gets the sensitive “sit-spot” and he knows the pain Richardson feels right now will reignite every time he sits down for hours to come.

Unexpectedly, Mr Gregory hears a voice from a distance. His name is being called. It must be his secretary. Somebody probably wants to speak to him. He takes that as his cue to finish. “Stand up Richardson,” he wheezes. The boy jumps to his feet, bends down and tugs up his trousers. Only after they are safely zipped up and the belt is fastened does he gently rub his buttocks.

Mr Gregory has no more to say. He picks up the document he was previously reading and thrusts it at Richardson. “Do it again and bring it to me at five o’clock and woe betide you if there are any errors.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” Richardson whines as he takes it and hurries from the office.

Suddenly, Mr Gregory is brought to by a voice, “Mr Gregory, Mr Gregory.” It is the lady from the counter, “I said have you finished? Can I take your plate.” The office manager looks sheepish, “Yes thanks, Laura. I’ve finished.”

Picture Credit: Magic Spanking Factory


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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