A promised new story in true old fashioned style. Lots of media chat recently about returning discipline to schools. It won't happen (see previous blog) but this, for those interested, is how it used to be. Told, hopefully, entertainingly and with just a hint of historical inaccuracy.
Telling Lies
That must have hurt, Martin thought. That had landed full on,
right across the centre of the cheeks of the bending boy. That must have hurt
him. He winced as the young boy gasped
and shuffled his feet. He was crying now. That third stroke of the cane had
really stung. And he had one more to come. He had taken the first two well. The
young boy’s face had blanched when the master told him that it would be four
strokes of the cane. Four strokes for all three of them. In front of an eager
watching class. In spite of the boy’s pleas that he was innocent of any crime
he nevertheless bent down when bid. Bent down for a caning he knew he did not
deserve. And until that third stroke he had taken it well. But that had hurt.
As did the fourth and final stroke of the cane. When that landed on his small
bottom the boy howled. Rose and howled. And clutched his bottom. Unfairly
caned. You could see that in his eyes. Eyes directed at Martin.
The second young boy, trembling, took his companions place.
He had also pleaded his innocence but he had also witnessed the first caning.
He was resigned to his fate. But if tears flowed in anticipation it did not
stop him bending down and sticking out his small behind. Canings, even unjust
ones, had to be endured. He glanced at Martin as he bent down but Martin was
impassive. His own four strokes, much harder due to his age, were to come. And
in front of this class of thirteen year olds. He was not sure which was the
greater shame. The caning or the spectacle. Both combined in abject
humiliation. Martin winced again as the first stroke of the cane struck the
second boy’s bottom. This master was an expert. The boy howled but remained
bending. Clutching ankles as if his life depended on it. He stayed in place for
all the heady whacks to his rear. Then he rose and repeated the antics of his
young classmate. All of them. Rubbing clothed bottom, wiping copious tears. And
looking at Martin. Hostile looks of accusation and unfairness.
Martin rose. It was all over. His four strokes were excruciating.
They had stung like hell. His bottom was numb and dead. But he had not cried,
had not resisted. Would not do. Not a fifteen year old in a class of thirteen
year old boys. He had gritted his teeth and taken it. Four stinging whacks,
much harder than the other boys suffered, had landed on his backside. A
backside now burning. But all over. All over bar the throbbing soon to come.
But as he rose, resisting the temptation to massage his behind, another master
had entered the schoolroom. Whispers, looks, stern faces. And then his name.
Telling. Martin Telling. Go to the headmaster’s office. All onlookers seemed
perplexed. The class of thirteen year olds had witnessed a familiar, almost
enjoyable, drama. Now they witnessed something more obscure. A boy just caned
being sent to the headmaster’s study. That was not the natural order. So they
were puzzled, especially as the two masters looked equally perplexed. Annoyed,
angry even, but definitely perplexed. Only the two thirteen year olds truly
understood. They rubbed their respective burning rears and reflected that there
might be some compensation. Martin Telling glanced at them as he left the room.
They did not glance back.
Martin Telling stood to attention in the headmaster’s office.
Respectfully, hands behind back, he listened to what the headmaster had to say.
He wanted to close his eyes or look to the ceiling but resisted both. Any show
of defiance would not go well for him. He needed to show deference and tread
warily. His now stinging and throbbing behind told him that. Only ten minutes
since the master’s cane had warmed his backside he was now listening to what
may be a prelude to an unwelcome reprise. He needed every ounce of his wits. ‘Is
it true, Telling?’ He heard the words, the headmaster’s words. The final
question after a long peroration. Of course it was true. Every bloody word. But
he wouldn’t say so. That would lead to more trouble, more caning. No, he would
stick to his story, the story that led to him and two young innocents being
caned.
It had started as a joke, mischievous work for idle hands and
minds. He and two classmates, fifteen year olds all, set out to rob the tuck
shop. Easy really. Manned by studious A grade thirteen year olds once a week
and never, or rarely, anyone else around. Bit stupid really. It was one thing
to give the younger kids a try at management but leaving them on their own was
asking for trouble. They had robbed the tuck shop just as the two boys were
locking up and ran off with a multitude of goodies. All done in less than two
minutes. But one of them was seen. Him. Martin Telling. Sent to his form
master’s study for an explanation. And what an elaborate explanation it was.
Spurred on by menacing threats from his partners in crime. Leave us out of it
they said. Or else they said. So he did. Took the rap himself. Well almost. He
took the young guardians of the tuck shop down with him. They were in on it.
Faked robbery to cover up weeks of nickings. All very clever and believable.
Especially as both A grade thirteen year old boys admitted, honest souls that
they were, the occasional perk. Condemned themselves. Played into Martin
Telling’s hands. After that unexpected confession nothing they said was
believed. Four strokes each of the cane. Martin was slightly surprised he did
not get six.
And now that version was being questioned. Bit late really as
three boys were nursing sore behinds. Bit late to investigate deeply after you
have dished out the punishment. Or so Martin thought. So he stuck to his story.
Why risk a second whacking and, even worse, a duffing up from two burly fifteen
year old classmates. A no brainer. He would not change a word in spite of the
persuasive tale being told by the headmaster. There was not one older boy
Telling, he said, there were three. So my informant tells me. Three boys robbed
the tuck shop, those young boys seem to have been speaking the truth. I shall
apologise to them, they were unfairly caned. That is how it seems, given this
new information. ‘Is it true, Telling?’ He knew it was, you could tell by the
way he phrased the question. His informant was reliable. Martin Telling
considered his options. ‘He was mistaken sir’ was all he said. ‘The three were
myself and the two boys who have been caned.. There was no one else.’ The
headmaster said nothing but you could tell he did not believe. Not only did he
think, but would not say, that the class master who dished out three painful
canings had been overhasty but he also sensed that the truth was of a different
colour. Martin Telling was lying. No doubt of that. But the day of the tuck
shop raid was dull and misty and his informant a master of advancing years. He
had not said that he saw five boys, merely that he saw three running away and,
in his opinion, they were all fifteen year olds and one was Master Telling.
Hence his consternation when realising that two thirteen year olds were being
caned. He could be mistaken but the headmaster doubted it. He looked at the
motionless Martin Telling again. He had a certainty that Telling was lying but
on all else he was puzzled. The two thirteen year olds had, indirectly,
supported his fabricated tale. Hence their canings. The question was, why had they
done so? Martin Telling was dismissed but with the threat, not particularly
veiled, that the headmaster expected to see him again. ‘And when I discover the
truth’, he said, ‘I shall not hesitate to give you a second, well deserved,
more severe caning.’ Martin Telling flinched and then did so again. ‘And if it
is as I think’, the headmaster had continued, ‘it will be with your trousers
down.’
Martin Telling spent the next few days in some consternation
and nervousness. The headmaster was an imposing individual and, so it was said,
had a strong right arm when needed. His bête noir was thieving and lying.
Surprisingly indulgent of a variety of schoolboy pranks and weaknesses, he once
famously let off four boys caught skinny dipping in the school’s garden pond,
he had no time for those who stole or lied. And Martin Telling had done both. Four
strokes of the cane was a small price to pay but now, it seemed, it may not
rest there. The headmaster was determined to uncover the truth and, as Martin
knew, that truth was distinctly unpalatable. He had not known that his ploy of
saying that only he and the two younger boys were involved would be so readily
believed. A tuck shop scam engineered by him with their connivance. The younger
boys had not denied it, had not mentioned his classmates, and admitted to petty
pilfering. They had almost invited those four painful whacks that landed on
their backsides. It was all a bit of a mystery. Martin Telling had thought so
as he was bending down to get his own caning. He had been seen and named and he
paid the price. But that price was beginning to look like a small instalment.
He consulted his partners in the tuck shop crime and,
discovering untold facts, realised with a heavy heart that a minor impulsive
prank was spiralling out of control. His fellow robbers had a vicious and nasty
side that he was gradually and lately becoming more aware of. The initial
felony was being compounded in disturbing ways. Threats to his own person had
ensured his silence on their involvement, whatever the consequences. He had
been seen, they hadn’t. ‘It’s just you and those two snotty kids’, that is what
they said, and ‘they’ll do as they are told.’ They said that with confidence
and now he found out why. It made for a perverted sense. When Martin Telling
was seen and exposed his companions had taken decisive action to silence the
tuck shop boys. That action involved compromising photographs of the two in the
school toilets. ‘A word about us from either of you and these go on the school
notice board.’ Decisive, nasty, quick. The two boys, forced to undress and
pose, were both shamed and frightened. But when summoned the following day they
had followed the script, reasoning that a few swishes of a master’s cane across
the bottom was preferable to public shame and the possibility of a more savage
beating from older schoolmates. It seemed a reasonable choice, the lesser of
two evils. And, as noted, they were grade A thirteen year olds. But now the
script had changed. The master who had seen Martin Telling did not see any
running thirteen year olds. Doubts had arisen and an imposing headmaster was
suspicious and inquisitive. Martin Telling cursed his companions. They had not
the wit to see what he could see. The picture of that imposing headmaster
interrogating two thirteen year old, grade A, honest boys. The truth will out,
he thought. And when it does, mess will hit the fan. And he will sit firmly in
the middle between two vicious thugs and two tuck shop cherubs. ‘Lie your way
out of this one’, Telling told himself. He didn’t get a reply.
He was still considering how he could wriggle out of the
spiralling situation when things took a further turn for the worst. A
compromising photograph of the two thirteen year olds was posted on a prominent
notice board. A master, puzzled by a crowd of giggling boys, saw it and ripped
it down. It was only posted for a few minutes so no particular harm was done.
Except to Martin Telling. On the back of the photograph was his name and form
number. Not conclusive evidence that he took the picture but it kept him
clearly in the frame of the ever growing scandal regarding the tuck shop
robbery. For the second time in three days he stood to attention in the
headmaster’s office. Respectfully, hands behind back, he listened to a second
more sinister peroration. The headmaster was in full flow. He knew who the
young boys were. Or at least he had great suspicions. The faces were blurred
but, with Telling’s name on the reverse, the connection was obvious. He had no
intention of confronting the boys. The incident would be buried to minimise
embarrassment. Besides, entering the public arena merely convinced him of the
boy’s innocence. And he did not believe that Telling had taken the photograph
or displayed it. The latter would not make sense given that his name and form
was on the back. The headmaster took a deep breath. ‘But you are involved
Telling, up to your scrawny little neck. I know not what the motive is for this
disgraceful episode but I am convinced that it explains a lot.’ The headmaster
paused again. ‘I want the name of your two accomplices. Give them to me and
they will be expelled, as they deserve, and you will be let off. Fail to give
me the names and my earlier threat stands. Trousers down, Telling, trousers
down and twelve strokes of my senior cane. Do I make myself clear?’ He did.
The headmaster gave Martin Telling twenty four hours to come
up with the two names. Martin Telling reckoned that twenty four weeks would not
be enough. Give him those names and he would be mincemeat. Twelve whacks of the
cane was nothing compared to what else might happen. No, the headmaster would
not get the names. That resolve was easy. But why had the idiots displayed the
photograph and put his name on it? That did not make sense. Nothing was gained
by it and, potentially, there was a lot to lose. As things stood the one
sufferer was Martin Telling, his scheduled second caning had moved from a
threat to a promise. That suggested revenge. But why? He had kept quiet on who
were his fellow tuck shop robbers and the two grade A thirteen year olds,
nursing sore backsides, had pitifully played their part. Displaying the
photograph served no particular purpose. It had stopped the headmaster talking
to the two young innocents but whoever posted it was not to know that. It
puzzled Martin Telling for the rest of that day but a chance remark in the
lunchtime queue the following day revealed the solution to the mystery. And
when the mystery was solved Martin Telling did something he was pretty adept
at. It did not stop him being caned but, finally, it laid the tuck shop scandal
firmly to bed. Life eventually got back to some sort of normality. Because
Martin Telling lied. Again.
Thugs and thieves eventually fall out. That is a given. And
Martin Telling discovered that the chief thug, a nasty boy named Abercrombie,
was gunning for his equally nasty companion. Brains not brawn were Telling’s
speciality, and hearing the rumours of a split he tentatively approached him as
Abercrombie, alone, munched on his shepherd’s pie. He did not take him long to
learn the reasons for the split. The photograph had become hot property and,
having served its purpose, Abercrombie reasoned it was best destroyed. Problem
was his fellow thug had sold it to one of the school’s prize idiots and that
fool, for a dare, had pinned it on the notice board. Abercrombie was seething,
partly because the proceeds had not been shared and partly because displaying
the photo was never the intention. The threat was enough. ‘And he put my name
on it, presumably because I am the only one of us who wouldn’t beat him up.’
Martin said. Abercrombie grunted in what was some sort of agreement. That grunt
was repeated, accompanied by an unprepossessing smile, when Martin Telling
outlined his proposition. He needed to give the headmaster two names to get
himself off an uncomfortable hook. With Abercrombie’s approval and protection
he would name his fellow thug, he didn’t put it quite like that, and the idiot
who displayed the photo. Would suit both their causes. Abercrombie grinned. He
wasn’t totally stupid, he saw the symmetry of the solution in an instant. One
gets his reprieve, the other his revenge. At a malicious and lying stroke. ‘Go
for it, Telling’, he said and grunted again. In the hierarchical terms of the
minor public school they attended that was almost a Royal command.
It didn’t totally work of course. Abercrombie’s fellow thug
and the school idiot were expelled and the master who caned the two thirteen
year olds offered them an apology. Nothing was said about the photograph, it
was almost as if it had never been taken. The whole matter was wrapped up in
three or four days and a week after his second visit to the headmaster’s study
Martin Telling found himself there again. Standing to attention, hands behind
back, he suffered in silence a now familiar peroration. ‘’So, three fifteen
year old boys raid the school tuck shop. They are seen but only one, you
Telling, is recognised. You concoct a story involving two innocent boys and, to
ensure success, your companions blackmail them into compliance. I shall pass
over the details. The matter only comes to light because the master who saw you
sees, or hears of, the caning of those two innocent boys. You refuse, twice, to
name the true felons. Not even doing so when that unsavoury photograph came to
light. And then you have a change of heart and confess their sins. Am I right
so far, Telling?’ Martin Telling said nothing. He was still not sure how this
third visit to the headmaster’s study would end and wanted to keep his options
open. ‘They admit their guilt you will be pleased to know. Or at least they
admit involvement. Enough to warrant both of them being expelled. But where
does that leave you Telling? Where does that leave you?’ The headmaster
repeated himself, unnecessarily, and waited for an answer he knew would not be
forthcoming. He continued, now in full and imposing flow. ‘You are a liar
Master Telling. You have lied from beginning to end. And you were still lying
when you came to me with your adulterated version of something you lightly
consider to be the truth. The boy who pinned that disgusting picture on the
notice board was not one of the three seen running away from the tuck shop. He wasn’t
in school that day. But if I ask you who else was involved, who that third boy
was, you will lie again.’ The headmaster paused and sat down in his chair,
seemingly exhausted. His next statement was said very quietly. ‘It is for that,
if nothing else, that you will be caned again.’ Martin Telling winced. He knew
it was coming but hearing it spelt out struck fear in his stomach. ‘I will be
lenient in view of the fact that you were not a party to the disgusting
photograph but what I do will be well deserved. Six strokes, Telling. Six
strokes for being an incorrigible liar. Think yourself lucky it is not more. Take
down your trousers.’
Martin Telling knew that it would come to this but the final
command still came as something of a shock. He had never been caned by the
headmaster but he had heard tales of his strong right arm. And seen the
results. As far as he knew none had been caned with their trousers down but
then, he thought, none would probably say. He certainly wouldn’t. This was
embarrassing enough without any others knowing. He gulped and undid the belt on
his trousers wondering, as he did so, if he would be asked to remove his
jacket. He wasn’t. The headmaster merely moved around to his side and, as his
trousers fell to his feet, put his hand on the back of Martin Telling’s head
and indicated he should bend down. Martin did so and placed his hands on his
knees but, as the headmaster pressed again on his head, he bent further and hands
almost reached ankles. It was an unpleasant and unnerving position and Martin
could feel a sickness in his stomach and an almost uncontrollable trembling in
his legs. He felt again the heavy hand and a slight sensation of his jacket
being lifted and turned. Turned to rest on his bending back. The sensation was
repeated when his shirt followed and Martin became conscious of his
vulnerability. For a moment nothing else happened and then he felt the
unmistakeable sensation of fingers searching the waistband of his underpants
and, as they pulled away from his skin and down his legs, the vulnerability was
complete. He was naked from waist to thigh and his bottom, jutting out in the
age old manner, was ready for its chastisement. He had never felt so afraid.
Never felt such a churning of his insides. Never felt such strangeness in his
being. Exposed, helpless, threatened. He desperately wanted to stand up and run
but, wired as many a schoolboy before him, he remained passively in place. This
headmaster, tall and strong and stern, was going to cane his naked behind and
he, Martin Telling, dutifully would remain bending whilst he did it. It was the
way of such things.
A silence followed and then a movement away from the bending
boy. The opening of a drawer and following a slight rustle, a movement back to
him. And then a swish, the unmistakeable sound of a cane cutting the air.
Martin Telling’s stomach lurched again and his bottom cheeks involuntarily
twitched. And then more movement, the hand on his back again, pressing,
rearranging his shirt and jacket, pushing his underpants further down his legs,
the touch of the cold cane on his skin. It all took only a minute or so, maybe
less, it seemed like an hour to the waiting boy. He was conscious of his fear,
conscious of the pain to come, and conscious of his nakedness. Inexplicably he
sensed a small rising in his exposed penis and willed himself to ignore it. And
then the cold cane pressed against the centre of his backside. As if to confirm
that his caning was about to commence the headmaster spoke. His voice was calm
and firm. ‘You are an inveterate liar, Telling. I trust what I am about to do
will curb such tendencies. I suggest you grit your teeth and hold tight. I
intend all six to hurt.’ Martin Telling said nothing. He just closed his eyes
and waited for the pain. He did not wait long. As the headmaster finished
speaking he lashed the cane across Martin Telling’s naked bottom. The boy
gasped and raised his head followed by a shuffling of his feet. ‘Stay still’
the headmaster said as he readied the cane again and studied his first stroke.
A red central line was cut across the pale cheeks of Telling’s backside. He was
still studying it when he lashed the cane into the boy’s behind a second time.
This produced an ‘ah’ and an ‘oh’ from Telling and more shuffling of feet. The
boy was clearly in distress, even at this early stage. The third stroke quickly
followed and the boy half raised himself from his bending position. His shirt
and jacket fell across his cheeks, cheeks now emblazoned with the first three
cane stripes. The headmaster paused and pushed the boy down again and re-lifted
the jacket and shirt. He had none, or little, sympathy. Telling was a
consummate liar as well as being a thief and if this caning, humiliating and
hard, brought about even a small change it would be well worth any distress it
caused. But he was not a sadist. The boy’s bottom was fairly small and soft. It
had a teenage plumpness in its contours but was not designed for a heavy
beating. The three strokes of the cane were deepening to purplish weals and had
clearly hurt. He would ease up, even though it was unlikely the now whimpering
boy would notice. But the caning, so far, had been taken well. Telling had only
half rose after the third stroke, a particularly stinging one, and had readily
bent again when bid. The fourth and fifth strokes were delivered quickly and
the shuffling of the feet increased in agitation. The headmaster steadied the
boy, hand firmly on back, and told him that he could rise after the last
stroke. Martin Telling did so, quickly and eagerly, clutching his backside and
rubbing vigorously. No attempt was made to lift the underpants, dangling at
half mast around his knees. All efforts were honed on the burning pain, the
intense fire, which engulfed his bottom. It was not surprising. The sixth
stroke, the last, contained all the power of the previous strokes and a little
extra. The headmaster sensed this would be his only chance to steer this boy to
honesty. He wished the caning to be remembered and feared. The last stroke, if
none of the others, across Telling’s naked bottom ensured that. It was a
stoical and subdued boy who slowly rearranged his state of dress and, ten
minutes after the order to lower his trousers, left the headmaster’s study.
He may have vowed otherwise as he left that study but the
caning, in spite of the headmaster’s fervent wishes, did not change Martin
Telling. Looking at the marks across his behind later that evening master
Telling may have considered, fleetingly, that an honest course was a wise one. But
he considered more deeply pending sporting games and communal showers and
determined, in the circumstances, that they would be inadvisable for a week or
so. Nothing activates teenage boys as much as seeing livid cane marks across
the backsides of their classmates. No, communal showers were out. Martin
Telling was musing on this small but important matter when he made the
acquaintance of a boy who looked vaguely familiar. He turned out to be a
smaller, and more intelligent, version of the thuggish Abercrombie. ‘I saw you
getting the cane in our class’ he said and Telling winced at the memory. ‘My
brother says you are a good chap.’ Martin Telling wasn’t sure he wanted the
endorsement of a boy who had caused him to be caned twice but he refrained from
saying so. He merely nodded and as he did so Abercrombie junior explained his
presence. ‘My brother has been transferred to another school. Wants you to know
he bears you no grudges.’ There was a pause and then young Abercrombie
continued. ‘He says that you got caned again by the headmaster for not shopping
him. Did you?’ Like many schoolboys of a certain age he seemed eager for the
information. ‘Everyone says it was on your bare bum. Was it? Did you have to
take your trousers down?’ Martin Telling considered for a moment before answering.
‘I did get caned again, six strokes. And
it bloody hurt. But it wasn’t on the bare.’ The boy seemed disappointed. ‘Oh’,
he said, ‘Everyone thought it was.’ ‘Then everyone is wrong’, Martin said and smiled
as the boy shrugged and started to walk away. ‘If anyone asks you.’ he added,
‘I did not have to take my trousers down. Headmaster’s don’t do that at this
school.’ It was a lie. Just a small and understandable one, but a lie
nevertheless. Such things came easily to Martin Telling.
Alfred Roy (2014)