A Caning From Three Angles (M/m)

A little while since I posted. Have been busy but, as new photo at the side shows, found time to indulge in a favourite hobby. Much justified seeing as hits on this blog now total 200,000. I find it pleasing that so many people enjoy the same strange passion as me. When I was young I thought I was the only one. I mean, how can anyone really enjoy being caned on their bare bottom? Lots of us as the internet  regularly illustrates. Long may it continue. If anyone has found any better fun than dropping your pants to be whacked then I have yet to discover it. Age limits activity these days but writing stories, such as below, compensates. Never happened to me but I can fantasise. An F/M story next time - Hotel Appointment. Like to keep all the folks happy. 200,000 times apparently. Alfred Roy

A Caning From Three Angles

 

The Headmaster’s View

It has to be done. The boy deserves it, far more than most. A particularly nasty piece of work. Bullying minors and blackmailing them. I rarely sanction canings but this one was an easy decision. Either this or being expelled. Or both. No, I settled on the caning but make it a harsh lesson. That was my decision. Reading the report on his crimes made that decision easy. Eight strokes. Eight strokes on his bare behind. That would teach him. So I thought. Until I saw him. Now. Standing here in my study. He looks so young and vulnerable. So innocent, so scared. Have I misunderstood?

 

The Games Master’s View

Thank God he agreed. I thought for a moment he was going to decline my recommendation. Going to suggest that the boy should be suspended or, even worse, just given a detention. No sir, no headmaster, he deserves a good thrashing. A few strokes of a cane across his backside, preferably a dozen, preferably bare. Show the little bastard that we do not condone his actions. And I will do it, willingly, it is well overdue. He looks like an angel, standing there, but do not chicken out. This little beggar deserves everything he is going to get and, by God, I shall enjoy it. That bum is going to be very sore if I have any say in it. Even if you relented to only eight. I shall make them feel like twelve.

 

Master Andrew’s View

Not much chance here. The headmaster is a wimp; he looks more scared than me. And that gym master is a bastard. Been itching to whack me all year. Probably wank off to it afterwards. Especially as he got his wish. I have asked the headmaster to agree to your pants coming down, he had said. A bare arse thrashing boy. I was supposed to be impressed, supposed to plead. I spit at him. See you in court I said. He repeated it. Bare backside, eight strokes though I reckon you deserve at least twelve. How he enjoyed keep saying it. Your pants are coming down boy, your pants are coming down. Tomorrow. If he doesn’t bring himself off at the thought probably the headmaster will. Me? I have had worse. And now I am here, in the study, and hate and fear are eclipsed by a surfeit of despising. Just get it over.

 

The Set Up

The headmaster sipped his glass of water. How he hated situations like this. A young boy trembling. A master fired up with indignation and revenge. And himself, arbiter of an unpleasant task he would wish left to others. Corporal punishment was rarely sanctioned these days. Almost outlawed, but not quite. Reserved only for the most serious cases. And this one was serious, so much so that he had agreed with the gym master. Yes the boy could be caned. Yes he could be given the maximum of eight. And yes he could have his pants taken down. It was still allowed at a private school. Even if not condoned. But all apprised of the circumstances would agree. He thought. Would agree that the boy’s pants would have to come down. And, naturally, he would have to be there. To watch, to ensure fair play. To ensure no overstepping of the mark. No going too far when a boy was caned on his bare backside. This boy. Trembling and nervous. The first to suffer such for at least three years. He had shuddered when the gym master said this. Three years since we sanctioned such a punishment. Almost an attempted rape that was and the instigator was subsequently expelled. Only a nicety in the procedures had allowed him to be caned first. Much deserved. But this boy, this boy, was his sin so bad?

Yes headmaster, the gym master had said. Bullied twelve year olds and threatened them if they did not pay him protection money. A nice little scam, a nice earner, for a year or so until one of the little ones absconded and revealed all to his distraught parents. Deserving of being expelled but a caning first. Or as a substitute, a reprieve. He didn’t care as long as his sturdy cane whacked into that boy’s bottom around a dozen times. Long desired to do it but never dared. This was his chance. If not twelve then at least eight. And pants down headmaster. Make him suffer as he made the juniors suffer. Make him feel something he will never forget. And then expel him if you want to. Send him away with thick and fiery red stripes across his rebellious arse. Will be an hour well spent.

He told the boy of the headmaster’s decision. He never flinched. Five and a half feet of pure, sixteen year old, venom. He and the gym master loathed each other with a passion. Got your wish, he said. Always wanted to get my pants down, he said. And the wimp has agreed. Surprised you haven’t got a hard on, or maybe you have. The gym master refused to rise to the taunting bait. His hour would come when this boy was bent over, trousers and underpants down, awaiting his cane on his bare flesh. He could wait and the boy knew that. False bravado ahead of a daunting experience. He spat in the face of the threat but inwardly quaked. But whatever transpired he was determined not to cry. He hated the bastard of a gym master and despised the wimp of a headmaster. They might see his naked bum but they would never see tears.

 

The Preparation

It was all so classically evocative. The diminutive and venomous Master Andrew, eyes ablaze with a mixture of fear and loathing, the sadistic Games Master rich in eager anticipation, and the tall and perturbed Headmaster weighing up justice with humanity and order with excess. The boy had to be caned, as decreed, and he had to be caned on his bare backside. As persuaded. But if the Games Master was bent on a private vengeance, long festered, he was there to ensure the ultimate sanction stayed within acceptable bounds. In a study rich in leather bound furniture and washed with afternoon sun, he laid out the inevitable procedure. Long and tortuous it seemed to a boy with a twitching behind and a games master holding a twitching cane. If the one feared, in spite of his outward bravado, and the other relished, both combined in wishing that the punishment would soon commence. The boy in hope it would quickly be over and the master in equal and fervent hope that it would be as imagined. The prolonged peroration, delaying to both the inevitable tableau to follow, was a headmaster using words to steel his resolve and allay his doubt. It was only five minutes or so from the boy entering the study to bending over the low backed leather chair but it seemed like an eternity. Never were words so unnecessary and wasted.

 

The Dialogue

The Headmaster spoke.

‘You know why you are here boy?’

‘Stupid question.’

‘Do not be insolent boy, you will only make things worse.’

It was the Games Master who spoke, relishing the expected insolence.

The headmaster again, surprisingly apologetic.

‘I just wish to be certain you know why you are to be caned, that is all.’

‘Because I got found out, because some brat blagged to his folks.’

The headmaster studied him and absorbed his response. Sympathy was rapidly dissolving.

‘Do you feel no remorse?’

‘There is only one thing he will feel, Headmaster.’

The Games Master again, impatiently tapping the cane against his right thigh.

‘Let him answer. Well, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, that is progress.’

‘For being found out.’

The boy spat out the words and followed with a few more.

‘Unlike all the other bastards who have been doing the same for years. But he likes them; he turns a blind eye to them. It’s only me he wants to get.’

‘That is not true, Headmaster. I have no agenda.’

‘Bollocks.’

The boy spit out the word and the Headmaster flinched.

‘It’s bollocks. He has been itching for an excuse to cane me for months. That little oik gave him one.’

The Games Master again.

‘I have no agenda, Headmaster. I agree that I have long felt that this boy deserves to be taught a hard lesson. Which is why we are here. But it is not personal, definitely not. It is only what is deserved. Deserved and just.’

The Headmaster sipped water from the glass on his desk and pursed his lips. Combining thoughts and words were proving difficult.

‘Putting aside this perceived animosity do you accept that what you did was wrong? Threatening younger boys and stealing money from them?’

‘I didn’t steal. They gave it to me.’

‘In return for what?’

‘Things.’

‘Bollocks.’

This time it was the Games Master uttering the expletive.

‘He was running a protection racket, Headmaster. If they did not give him cash he would beat them up. We are wasting time. He deserves to be thrashed and he knows it.’

The Headmaster pursed his lips again.

‘Is that true?’

‘Of course it is true, and that little shit knows it. Don’t be deceived by the angelic face.’

‘Language, Master, language. I repeat, is it true?’

The boy considered before answering. To deny was to prolong and, although fearful of what was to be done, he wished it over. Just so long as he did not cry. He did not want to give that satisfaction to a man he hated.

‘Yes. Yes it is true. They paid me so I would not beat them up. But I am not the first, or the last. Just the one that that shit, that shit, wanted caught.’

‘Then you leave me no choice.’

As the Headmaster said this there was almost a hint of regret in his voice, a hint that the Games Master was determined to extinguish.

‘There you have it Headmaster. Out of his own mouth. His own words, so perhaps we can now get on with what we are here for.’

The cane tapped impatiently, yet again, against the twitching and rigid right thigh.

‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’

The Headmaster took a deep breath.

‘You will be caned, Andrew Bailey. Caned for a heinous offence. It is with regret but with justification that I sanction it. Your Games Master, Mr Bennon, will administer the caning. Eight strokes.’

‘Think yourself lucky, boy. I wanted twelve.’

The Headmaster ignored the interjection.

‘Eight strokes of the cane on your buttocks. The normal punishment at this school. But in view of the seriousness of your offence...’

‘That bastard gets his wish.’

‘Quiet. The Headmaster has not finished.’

‘In view of the seriousness I have agreed that the caning shall be delivered to your naked backside. I would therefore ask you to prepare yourself and bend over that chair. The sooner this is over the better.’

A moment of silence as all absorbed the fateful words.

The boy gulped but hid his nervousness. He knew it would come to this and he was not looking forward to it. Putting aside the humiliation of taking his trousers down and showing his bare bum the thought of that cane hitting him eight times was loosening his bladder. He was scared but he would not show it. Not to that shit of a Games Master. Just do not cry he said to himself. Anything, any pain, but that.

The Games Master felt a surge through his being. The Headmaster had said it at last, eight strokes with pants down or words to that effect. The warm surge thrilled his body and the look on the boy’s face, anxiety tinged with contempt, thrilled him even more. Imagination was about to become reality and if he stiffened in contemplation it was hardly surprising. But for the next few minutes, heady with anticipation, control was all.

The Headmaster breathed deeply and pursed his lips again. The boy’s gaze was unnerving and the Games Master was visibly twitching. He prayed that he had made the right decision.

‘Take down your trousers boy. It is time you were caned.’

Any of the three could have said that.

 

The Caning – The Headmaster’s View

Take down your trousers boy; it is time you were caned. He had uttered the words he had been rehearsing all morning and their effect was electric. What had been promised was about to be delivered. There was no going back, all three knew that. He watched, mesmerised, as the boy shrugged and approached the leather chair. Only the combined heavy breathing of the three broke the enveloping silence. The boy, face set grim and determined as he struggled with the buckle on the belt of his trousers. The Games Master, eyes ablaze and body stiffened with eager anticipation. And he himself, transfixed by the scene evolving before him in his study. A boy, a boy he had decided he did not particularly like but a boy all the same, was about to be caned on his naked bottom. And he had sanctioned the man at his side, determined and ready and vengeful, to administer it. He watched as the boy loosened his belt, undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. He sensed the keenness in the Games Master growing and inwardly resolved to ensure that this caning, however deserved and however severe, remained within bounds. It was to be eight strokes across the boy’s buttocks, nothing more nor less. He would ensure no loss of control. The boy hesitated before bending over the chair as if coming to a decision. He guessed at what it was and the following action confirmed it. The boy pushed down his underpants to his knees and, contemptuously and almost provocatively, pulled up his shirt to his waist and bent over the back of the leather chair. Presenting an almost studied central nakedness which indicated that his backside may be about to be violated but he retained some control, some strange dignity. It invoked a grudging admiration, in him if not in the Games Master who snorted at such at an action, at such a display. Wishing no doubt, he thought, that such revealing action was a key element of the drama that the Games Master had intended for himself. No matter all was now ready and he watched as the bending boy was approached and the cane which had twitched in readiness from the first moment pressed into the naked bottom. When you are ready Mr Bennon, let us get this over with. Eight strokes, no more, as we agreed.

 

The Caning – The Games Master’s View

When you are ready Mr Bennon. Of course I am ready. I have been ready ever since this little oik entered your study. Given his small frame and angelic looks I feared for a second that you might let him off. Until the shit opened his mouth and condemned himself. He’s scared now, I can tell, in spite of that grim face. He knows I am going to lay on the cane as hard as I can even if you don’t. But I shall keep control, shan’t give you any reason to relent even if he screams his bloody head off. I’ll make sure every one of those eight strokes will be across the centre of his pretty little arse. I have been practising, been waiting, been wishing this opportunity. I shan’t screw up. And as a bonus I have to say it is a nice arse. Small and tight and very boyish and, thankfully, as clean and pure peach as I could wish. A boy’s arse absolutely designed for a caning, for having livid red stripes across it. Oh, how I shall enjoy this. Pity he pulled down his own pants, I was looking forward to that, looking forward to showing him who was in charge. But, no matter. He did himself no favours with the Headmaster in exposing himself like that, pulling up his shirt and almost waving his tiny cock at us. A late two fingered salute no doubt. But at least he has bent over, not resisting like I thought he might, and that delectable naked arse is twitching in anticipation. Not so much as me, as I am sure he knows. I am going to enjoy this Headmaster, and yes I am ready. I place my cane across Bailey’s naked bottom, let us call it that, and take a deep breath. I have waited so long, so long. Even if it is only eight.

 

 

The Caning – Master Andrew’s View

Take down your trousers boy, it is time you were caned. Pompous git. Nervous as well. Hey, it is me being caned, not you. Reckon he wouldn’t be so nervous if I was getting them on my trousers and a less sadistic beast was doing it. I am ready anyway, ready as I can be. Eight strokes across my bare bum. Does not bear thinking about, so I won’t. But shan’t give them any pleasure, especially that bastard of a Games Master. Hide the twitching, hide the nerves, hide the filling bladder desperate to pee. Just get on with it I say. I shall pull my own pants down, everything, and pull up my shirt. Show them I do not care, that I have nothing but contempt. They can have a good look at my bum and my cock and my balls and reckon on what they are doing. And I will not scream, I will not cry, I will take that bastards eight strokes on my bum and then get out of here. I will not be humiliated either. Showing my bits is no big deal, even if that nasty cane cutting into me will be. It is soon over, I hope. Bending now, sticking up my bum, begging him to whack it. And he will, especially as I am sure he has got a hard on. Pervert. Oh, God, it is touching my bum. The cane. And it feels so cold and hard on my bare skin. I must not cry. I tell myself, whatever else, I must not cry. I can see the Headmaster standing to my right. Catch his eye. I must not cry.

 

The Caning

It was as all had anticipated. The Headmaster, the Games Master, the Boy. The classic dance, age old, played so many times over so many years in so many places. A boy bent down, in this case over a chair, trousers and underpants around his knees and bare bottom sticking provocatively into the air. A man, rigid and stern, standing to his side and slashing his cane across the twin orbs of the twinkling boyish buttock cheeks. Creating a picture of livid red stripes that induced both anguish and appreciation. Anguish from the one suffering and appreciation from the one administering. And the arbiter, the one watching, ensuring that all was in acceptable bounds. In this case eight strokes, no more, and all delivered centrally across the boy’s two cheeks.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

It does not sound much.

Thwack.

The boy squealed, in spite of himself, and the headmaster flinched.

Thwack.

The boy squealed again, the headmaster flinched again, and the games Master admired the growing red stripes.

Thwack.

Will he rise, he is struggling, and that was the hardest yet.

Thwack.

That was good, he squealed so loud I thought he would rise. The Headmaster is transfixed; he cannot take his eyes of the boy’s bottom.

Thwack.

Aaagh. That was vicious, all agreed. Wriggling, squirming, surges of desire from the wielder, a mesmering fascination from the Headmaster. It cannot stop. It will get harder.

Thwack.

It did. The Boy screamed, half rose, A trickle of blood on the edge of the the deepest red weal. The games Master sensed, almost felt, the pressing of his erection. The Headmaster groaned but did not move. The boy started the gentlest of whimpers as the blood trickled down his naked thigh.

Thwack.

The boy screamed again, and screamed even more, begging to be let off, rising, pushed down, one more to come. The Headmaster agitated, wandered around, drank in the naked bottom, waited. The Games Master pressed the hand holding the cane against his groin then raised it for the final time.

Thwack.

Aaaaaaaagh. Screams. Tears. Abuse. Rising. Clutching buttocks. Swearing. No more. No more. No more it said. You have won, you have won, you bastard. The Games Master stepped forward, cane raised, grabbed the boy’s shirt. Lifted it high to his shoulders. Ready to strike again. The Headmaster, the wimp, the prevaricator, stepped in. Eight. Eight he has had. We all three need to calm down.

And they did.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

It does not sound much.

But it is.

 

Aftermath

The boy stood by his mirror in his room. Tears in his eyes. He had failed but with some justification. The pain had been excruciating, he had almost passed out. But he had not cried off, until the end when the last vicious stroke had cut into him. So he smiled and lowered his trousers and his underpants and turned around. He studied the eight livid weals across his behind. They would be there for some time. All eight. Evenly spaced marks across both of his small cheeks. Raised, hard, vivid, and purple. Turning black at the centre. He touched them. Scabby. His fingers moved and contrasted the feel with the smoothness of his untouched skin. Eight strokes, parallel lines, only an inch and a half or so from first to last. That Games Master knew his trade. It was a caning he would not forget. His bottom, still hot, said so. He pulled up his pants. Two hours later he lowered them again and looked again at the stripes. And this time, this time almost in defiance, he masturbated. Brought himself off.

Elsewhere in the school, separately, as imaginations were fuelled and situations relived, two others were doing the same.

 

Alfred Roy (c) 2017