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Really Strict School
Episode 3 – Bare Arse Caning

by Strict Master

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 12 Feb 2009


Really Strict School – Episode 3 – Bare Arse Caning

Hello, Jim Richards here continuing the story of my conversion to the Cane. As you know (see Episode 1 – Bare Arse Strapping), I came to St. Michael's under protest as a spoiled 16 year old brat in total denial of the strict disciplinary requirements of the school. Less than a year later and close to my 17th birthday, my attitudes had changed one hundred and eighty degrees.

Yes, I now actually took pride in having my bottom painfully Stropped either over my tight uniform shorts or, most deliciously, on the bare. I regretted being in the Fifth Form where corporal punishment was less frequent, and wished that I had entered the school earlier in say the Second or Third Form where Stropping was an almost daily occurrence. Don't ask me to explain this, but bending over with my butt publicly bared for a serious whipping turned me on like almost nothing else.

Familiarity is said to breed contempt. I cannot say that I developed contempt for the Strop, nobody who has had 12 whacks on his naked buttocks could claim that it doesn't hurt like hell, but it certainly no longer scared the daylights out of me as it once had. This may have generated a growing carelessness of consequences. Surely it was an element in my next escapade – maybe it was a stupid and potentially dangerous prank, but I'm still proud of it.

It happened that I came across an illustrated book detailing how some of the students of Cambridge University delighted in climbing the many towers of that beautiful city and placing inappropriate objects on top of them, lavatory seats and chamber pots being the most popular.

It also happened that St. Michael's Chapel boasted not only beautiful stained glass windows, but also a striking Spire which rose to an heroic height and was much encrusted with gargoyles and similar decorative extravaganza. I'm sure that even the dimmest witted can make the connection – what transpired was as inevitable as day followed night.

I took my time in the planning. I had done some rock climbing on holidays and with the over-confidence of youth I considered myself well qualified. I borrowed a pair of field glasses, on the pretext of bird-watching, and from the open window of the Library, I carefully plotted a safe route up. It was akin to planning an Everest ascent. I would be climbing unassisted, but I was increasing sure I could make it fairly easily, even at night.

In my preoccupation I did not at first realize that I had spiked the curiosity of my best friend George Patterson. He was not fooled for a moment by my sudden interest in bird watching. He knew very well that I could scarcely distinguish the front from the back of any bird. He insisted on an explanation. I resisted, saying that it would be safer for him not too know. This of course only fired his curiosity even further. At last, after extracting a life long oath of secrecy, I gave in and revealed my plans.

Of course, he wanted to come with me. I persuaded him that this would not be sensible, but that he could be useful in a variety of support functions, particularly in keeping a lookout on the night of the mission. Reluctantly he agreed to this and thereafter was a valuable asset to the planning.

We resolved that no one else was to be admitted to the secret – except that our two mates in our four-man Dorm had to be alerted that we two would be out of bounds for an hour or two that night and that they should cover for us as best they could if necessary – they had no idea what we intended to do.

I won't bore you with a step by step account of my climb up the Spire. It went exactly as planned. The only glitch was when somebody, a sleepless member of staff out for a breath of fresh air presumably, wandered into the Chapel Quad when I was about halfway up. Fortunately George, from his vantage point in the Library window, spotted him and was able to give his rather shaky imitation of an owl hooting to warn me to freeze until the coast was clear again.

I had thought long and hard about what to secure at the top. I felt that a flag of some sort would be the easiest to carry up with me and could be big enough to attract attention from below the next morning. Accordingly, I had gone down to the village to the small old-fashioned Ladies Haberdashery and with some suspicion from the elderly shop-owner, I muttered something about a present for my Aunty, was able to purchase a pair of particularly voluminous long-legged bloomers.

These I fastened by the legs to the top of St. Michael's Chapel Spire. Even the faint night breeze seized the light material and blew it out splendidly. My descent was again without incident, and George and I were soon safely tucked up in our beds again with no one the wiser.

The results of our escapade went far beyond what we had imagined. Even before we dragged ourselves out of bed, we could hear a buzz of excitement throughout the school. When we finally got up and dressed, we found that from every vantage point almost every boy, and members of Staff, we staring up at the Spire. Speculation was rife, but it was clear that nobody had a clue of who had done the deed. After an hour or so, we became more confident that we had got away with it.

We had expected that the Headmaster would send somebody up to cut down the bloomers – but nothing happened. Then the rumour spread that he was taking no chances and had telephoned for a professional steeple-jack to do the job. My 'flag' flew through the morning, long enough for some resourceful guy to take a high definition digital photograph and email the picture to the regional TV station. From that point on things started to unravel.

By ill chance, the interfering old biddy from whom I had purchased the bloomers recognised them on the TV broadcast picture and telephoned the school. Of course she did not know my name, but her description was enough to narrow the field to a boy from the Senior School, and a biggish boy at that. Initially Prefects were sent around to check on whether anybody had been out of bed the previous evening. Our two mates loyally confirmed that George and I had not left our Dorm.

Then it got worse: The Librarian remembered seeing me apparently bird watching from the Library window, looking up at the Spire. My goose was cooked. The Headmaster called a meeting of the Senior School, and claimed the authorities were certain of the identity of the culprit, and would the boy responsible now own up to save further trouble. What could I do?

I stood up. “It was I, Sir.”

Unexpectedly, a ripple of applause arose from the assembled boys – even the Headmaster smiled.

“Good of you to own up, Richards – but that's not going to spare you appropriate punishment. Now, the boys who assisted Richards please stand up.”

There was a short pause before George stood and admitted he had been the watchman, and then our two mates admitted they had lied about George and me not leaving the Dorm. Case closed – all that was left was sentencing and execution.

We spent a somewhat anxious night until at Assembly the next morning the Headmaster firstly addressed the school on the subject of dangerous and foolish pranks, to which nobody really listened, then got the Schools attention with his announcement of our punishments.

Our two Dorm mates were to get the Strop, 6 strokes each – George was to get the Strap, 12 strokes – and I was to get the Cane, 18 strokes. 18 strokes? Oh No – any complacency I might have felt instantly dissipated. 18 strokes of the Cane! My bottom crawled at just the thought of it. The punishments were to be executed at a special Punishment Assembly of the whole school that evening; the Headmaster promised his intention of making our punishments a 'spectacle', as he called it, to be remembered.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. I was distressed that my prank had resulted in such dire consequences for my co-conspirators, especially our Dorm mates who had not really been involved at all: But curiously they felt that a Stropping, even if it was on the Bare which seemed likely, was a small price to pay for being seen as part of the 'Bloomer Team'. They revelled in the notoriety. Some of this rubbed off even on George, who nonchalantly opined there was not much difference between the 8 with the Strap he had got last time and the 12 he was now due for. They all seemed to feel that the adventure had been worth it, which made me feel a little better.

Not so comforting was the reaction to my 18 with the Cane. Nobody in living memory had got that many. There were lots of very genuine expressions of sympathy and concern, which did nothing to comfort me. I was in for a really severe beating and there was no avoiding that certainty.

The four of us were kept waiting outside the Assembly Hall, clad only in tight PT shorts – we even had to take off our shoes and socks – only one remove from being naked. Once the school had settled, we had to walk in file up the length of the Hall between the seated boys. All eyes were upon us.

We were directed to stand in a line on the lower level of the main platform, with our hands behind our heads. I could almost feel the several hundred pairs of eager boyish eyes focussed on my thinly covered buttocks.

The Headmaster led off with another boring lecture about irresponsible behaviour which in many schools would have led to expulsion, and the need for severe punishment to deter any would be imitators. He droned on, backed by the righteous expressions of his staff. The only one not looking righteous was Mr. Watson who couldn't help himself almost drooling with excitement as he looked at us. I had no doubt who would be our executioner, from whom we could expect no mercy.

The first two were called up one by one onto the platform, had their shorts stripped off, and positioned lying naked and unrestrained across the antique punishment horse. Mr. Watson, in a deceptively leisurely manner, slowly delivered 6 stinging strokes with the Strop on to their bare butts. He seemed to swing with more enthusiasm than was usual, and he was using his special Strop, the Personal Persuader, which I had already felt (see Episode 2 – Bare Arse for the Strop), but both boys took this fairly ordinary punishment without fuss. They were ordered to take up position at one side, hands again behind heads, their reddened young bottoms turned to the school.

There was a stir of anticipation behind us as George was called up – proceedings were entering the exciting part to which all the boys were looking forward. Unlike the first two, George was fastened down, his legs forced apart by the restraints and the shape punishment horse whose maker, however long ago, had known well how to force a boy's bottom into the most humiliating and vulnerable position. For the second time since my arrival at St. Michael's, I had the erotic sight of George's arse button winking at me as he clenched and unclenched in nervous anticipation.

George's Strapping took the punishment up onto a new level. Mr. Watson excelled himself. That wicked Strap fell with relentless precision, searing ever available inch of sensitive flesh. George could not help groaning from the first Stroke, gradually getting louder and then progressing to full bloodied cries of pain. The school fell very quiet – this was a beating such that they had rarely witnessed.

With some difficulty George got up and as he moved to the side, his really scarlet arse stood out in contrast to the only reddened backsides of the first two. I don't think that even the most hardened spankophile in the Hall would have chosen to trade places with him.

There was a short pause on the main platform, and some instructions were given. A tall heavy vase-like container was manhandled onto the platform, and I was horrified to see the ends of several Canes peaking out the top – no doubt soaking in water. I remembered what I had read about the quasi-solid core of Rattan Canes which soak up water and are much more flexible and less likely to split than ordinary bamboo – I was sure these were Rattans. I shivered.

There was a deadly silence in the hall. I think everyone was subdued by the hidden menace of the Canes. For me the waiting was nerve wracking. My bottom clenched tightly. Surprisingly my boyhood started to stir, stimulated by the previous beatings of the naked boy bums only feet in front of me, and now by the imminent baring of my own arse for much worse treatment. I tried not to look at the Canes, but I seemed to be mesmerised by them. What would they feel like? I really had no idea – I had never ever been Caned before.

When I was first ordered to step up onto the higher platform, I did not at first associate the order with me. It was repeated angrily. Time went into slow motion. I went up on the platform almost in a dream. When my shorts were roughly pulled down, I sort of looked down on myself, standing there stark naked with the whole Assembly staring at me. I was not embarrassed; I was too scared for any such finer thoughts.

But my prick now had a life of its own. It steadily hardened, not to the full, but more than enough to stick out in a splendid drooping curve. An accidental move on my part exposed it to the school – I could hear the hiss of in-drawn breaths.

“Go down on the horse to receive punishment, Boy.”

My wrists and ankles were secured with leather cuffs and straps. A belt was fastened around my waist. The result was that my bare bottom was exposed as it never had been before. I was sure that my arse-hole was winking provocatively back at the whole school. My cock and balls had fallen into a purpose built aperture cut into the horse and remained hidden below. Just as well – I now had a straining hard-on.

Within my view, Mr. Watson selected a Cane from the container and swished it to displace surplus water. The sound set my arse quivering. I noticed the Cane was not as big as I had feared – it was between three and four feet long and of comparatively slender diameter. I was told later that with 18 strokes to come, the Cane was selected for accuracy rather than for brute force.

However, any hopes I might have had that this Caning might not be too bad were swiftly dispelled. The first stroke, landing with such intensity right across the apex of my butt, took me completely by surprise and I could not help yelling out loud. The Cane felt quite different from the Strop which is all I had experienced before. It seemed to concentrate the fiery pain in a way that far surpassed my worst imaginings, and that fire only increased as the seconds ticked by. OH GOD – NO – THIS COULDN'T BE. Only one stroke and I was already reduced to a sobbing small boy.

My whole existence immediately became bound up in the PAIN in my poor butt – and the Caning had scarcely started. After what seemed like an eternity, the second stroke landed parallel just below the first. This time I was prepared and managed to keep my vocalisation to a very audible groan. He was fiendishly accurate. Stroke followed stroke, above and below the first, the lower ones creeping closer and closer to that particularly vulnerable crease between bum and thighs. My moans and groans grew louder.

A part of my mind seemed to detach itself from the whipping. In particular I was conscious that my hidden cock was engorging and extending with every stroke. It felt like that it was being pumped to burst – I had never before had such an intense gasping hard-on.

Then the expected fateful stroke landed right in the crease – the agony was absolutely unbelievable. I really yelled out loud, and at the same time I shot the largest load for the longest time that I had ever come anywhere near before. The bastard landed another in the crease, right over the previous one. I yelled again and purged every last bit of cum out of my prick – it was like dry heaving.

This must have happened about the twelfth stroke and from then on I drifted into a sort of ecstasy, each cutting stroke thudding home and adding to my delirium. I even tried to raise my tortured buttocks better to receive the caress of the Cane, my cries becoming a paean of welcome. Then I realised the beating had finished – and I was strangely saddened.

I was able to stand somewhat shakily, but George quickly moved to steady me before we walked together out of the hall, both still nakedly exhibiting our scarlet backsides, followed by our acolytes sporting their own less dramatic trophies. To my surprise, the Cane had not cut my backside at all, Mr. Watson really was an expert, but the results were nothing less than spectacular.

George and I lost no time in putting our beaten butts on display. I doubt there was a boy in the school who did not view or touch with ghoulish relish. The income collected was substantial, more than covering the Headmaster's charge on me for the cost of the steeplejack.

I was now a convinced convert to the joys of a really good Caning. I wondered when I would be able to get another.

The End

(To be continued – If you enjoyed this Story, please let me have your Votes and Comments and particularly your Suggestions for future episodes)

 
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