Three Boys Get Punished By Authoritative Pip NB This is my first attempt at writing a spanking story.
Do let me know what you think of it. Three Boys Get Punished Part
One: A Tawsing And A Change of Uniform A Tawsing And A Change of
Uniform James, Andrew and Peter stood dejectedly outside the headmaster's
study, their faces the picture of misery. The three eleven year-olds
had been involved in a fight with a couple of proletarians from the
neighbouring comprehensive and had been caught by Philip ainsley,
one of the senior prefects, who had instantly dispatched them to the
headmaster. The three knew that something drastic was going to happen.
Mr Jenkins, the headmaster, was well-known for his generous gifts
of punishment, from: six scorchers of the Cain across the seat of
your grey school shorts; a tawsing, usually twelve, half over shorts
and half across ones bare legs; to a full-blown flogging. As the
three boys stood shaking in the corridor, nervously waiting for that
perilous moment when they would be summoned into the head's study,
they couldn't help wondering what Mr Jenkins had got up his sleeve
for them. Andrew was the only one among them who had never been
caned. Already that term James and Peter had received three from their
form teacher for skipping prep, and now, here they were, standing
outside the head's study waiting for another. All at once they heard
footsteps thundering up the passage. The three boys turned and saw
the tall, formidable figure of Matron coming towards them, a huge
bundle of clothes draped over one arm. Upon reaching the headmaster's
study, she paused, knocked the door, and without waiting, turned the
knob and entered and shut the door quickly behind her, leaving the
three boys to stare after her in puzzled amazement. From inside
the study, they could hear them talking in low voices. Then the head's
voice, upraised and commanding, shouted: "come in, you three reprobates!",
Which made the three juniors standing outside his study, jump. Peter
opened the door and they shuffled in, their hearts beating ten to
the dozen. "Come and stand over here," said the head, indicating
his desk with his hand. They obeyed. It was at this point that they
realised the matron's involvement in all of this. There she sat, leisurely
ensconced in one of Mr Jenkin's big leather armchairs, her long arms
folded neatly under her protruding bosom, a faint smile on her heavily
painted red lips. The pile of clothes she'd been carrying were neatly
laid out on a small table beside her. The boys gazed at them in
horror. They were the clothes of the reception boys. There were three
sleeveless grey v-necked jerseys , three crisp white short-sleeved
shirts, three pairs of short grey socks and three pairs of grey flannel
shorts, which to the three boys, looked far too small for them. Yet
it wasn't the clothes that surprised them the most, it was the site
of seeing three blue PVC aprons next to them, the sort usually worn
at mealtimes and for painting by the boys in the pre-prep department. Their
hearts sank, no doubt each thinking the same thing. They were for
them. They were going to be made to wear these clothes and aprons
in place of their everyday uniform. Frowning, the head fixed them
with a penetrating eye, and the three instantly knew they were in
for a thrashing of a lifetime. "I hear from Ainsley that you have
been fighting with the rabble from the comprehensive. Is that true?" The
three knew from past experience that to lie would only result in even
greater retribution. "Yes, sir," they mumbled, in unison. The
head shot them a frightening look. "Look at me when I'm talking to
you," he bellowed. The bare knees of the three boys shook as they
answered: "Yes, sir." "That's better," said the head, thumping his
desk with his hand. He then went on to lecture them on the vagaries
of violence, and ended with: "I have given the matter my serious attention.
You will each be punished and then matron here, will deliver her own
punishment when I have finished dealing out mine. Do I make myself
clear?" "Yes, sir," they said, knowing in their own minds what matron's
punishment was going to be. "Right," thundered the head, standing
up, "now go and bend over the back of that couch." The three boys
knew now that they were in for a serious beating. The couch was only
used for two reasons: a tawsing or a full-blown flogging. They only
hoped it wasn't the latter. Slowly and fearfully, James, Andrew
and Peter picked their way over to where a high-backed leather couch
stood in the far corner of the room, about four feet away from the
back wall. The head had obviously pulled it out in readiness for their
beating. The couch had been specially designed with punishment in
mind, for across the top, spread evenly apart, were six iron rings,
two for each boy. The boys being punished would be expected to place
themselves between them so that their executioner could rope them
down to prevent them from leaping up when they were being whipped.
Once you were in this position, your feet were about four or five
inches above the floor. Reluctantly, they heaved themselves over
the back of the couch. From where they lay, they could see the tall,
angular figure of the head. They watched him cross over to where an
enormous cupboard stood in the opposite corner of the room, open it
and to extract from it a set of tawse which hung on the inside of
the door. Then after laying them across a small table, he marched
up to the couch over which his three naughty little boys lay and swung
it round so that their bottoms no longer faced the wall, but stuck
out in full view of the watchful eyes of their matron. After picking
up a strong piece of rope, Mr Jenkins set about his task by threading
one end through the first of the iron rings and then to pull the other
end through the belt loops of Peter's grey school shorts and to tie
it securely to the next ring on his other side. The rope was next
passed under Peter's tummy and threaded through the belt loops on
the front of his shorts and tied tightly to the first ring. By now,
Peter's feet were several inches off the floor and he just lay balanced
uncomfortably over the back of the couch whilst the head did the same
to James and Andrew. By now, the three boys were very frightened
indeed. They also felt very vulnerable with their tightly clad bottoms
and defenceless bare legs protruding behind them waiting for that
unavoidable first crack of the two tailed tawse to strike. Picking
up the tawse, the head said: "for fighting, I am going to give you
each eighteen strokes and I shall expect you to count each one. Is
that clear!" The three boys gasped in horror. Eighteen strokes had
never been administered for even the most serious of offences in all
the time they had been at the school, and yet, here they were about
to receive eighteen cuts. "Yes, sir," quivered the three. Then braced
themselves for the first stroke. After taking up a firm stance behind
Peter, the head then raised his right arm from which dangled the three
feet of leather and brought it down squarely across the trembling
seat of the boy's tightly clad bottom with a resounding crack! At
first, Peter felt nothing. But seconds later came that awful, burning,
searing, agonising feeling which blazed across his backside. He gasped.
"One, sir," he choked. The head raised his arm a second time, but
this time when he brought it down, instead of landing across his bottom,
the two-tailed instrument of torture struck the backs of his bare
legs just below the hem of his grey school shorts, causing Peter to
cry out. The pain was excruciating. The two bits of leather cut savagely
into his bare flesh, leaving his legs feeling as if they were going
up in flames. Eventually, when the pain subsided, he managed to
squeeze out a strangled "Two, sir." The head next turned his attention
to James. Crack! "Ooo og!", yelled the stunned James. "One, sir." There
was a slight pause and then, crack! "aaah! Ouch!", wailed James, kicking
his legs. Like with Peter, that second blow had landed right across
his bare legs just below his shorts. Then it was Andrew's turn.
Unfortunately for him, the head was well practised and had a splendid
aim so that when the first stroke landed, he could do nothing but
gasp, the pain was that bad. The ends of the tawse bit into the flank
and caught him slightly between his legs, between the hem of his shorts
and his bare skin. "One, sir," Andrew said, with a gushing gasp. Crack!
The second landed and struck both his bare legs with such force that
if it wasn't for the rope holding firm his waist, he would have leaped
off the couch. The head watched as the marks made by that super
blow turned an angry red and raise themselves into little wheels before
returning his attention to Peter. Crack! "Oooo'og!", screamed Peter.
The grey worsted material of his school shorts no longer served as
a protection for his bottom against that evil leather instrument.
Somehow, the head managed to land that third stroke in almost exactly
the same spot as the first. "Three, sir," was Peter's feeble reply. "Sorry,
Peter," said the head, "I didn't quite catch that. That one doesn't
count. Right, you'll be given three more." And with that he brought
his arm down again. Crack! This time the tawse landed half on Peter's
shorts and half on his legs. This time Peter was quick with his
reply as he most certainly didn't want to receive more strokes than
was necessary. "Th'thr'three, sir." "Thank you, Peter." But before
delivering the next stroke, Mr Jenkins put down the tawse and, after
stepping up behind Peter, proceeded to grab his ankles and to pull
his legs open wider causing the boy's school shorts to rise further
up his thighs. He then picked up a longish tube with adjustable clamps
at each end and after opening them to what he thought was the right
size, proceeded to ram it between Peter's legs and to clip the clamps
around each knee which pinched his skin, causing him to cry out in
pain. "Ouch, sir," cried Peter. "That 'urts." "And so it jolly
well should," snorted Mr Jenkins." By now, Peter's legs were about
six or so inches apart, and the tube forcing them open was most uncomfortable. Picking
up the tawse, the head said: "I want the insides of those thighs punished
as well as the backs." With that, he raised his arm and brought
the tawse crashing down across Peter's right leg with a resounding
splat! Peter screamed and made a desperate effort to jerk his badly
injured leg free, but couldn't. The two bits of leather had struck
the back of his leg and wrapped themselves around the tender regions
of his inner thigh. "Four, sir," he squeaked. He knew now that
Mr Jenkins would take full advantage of the next stroke and administer
similar treatment to his other leg. Crack! He was right. The shiny
ends of the tawse cut painfully into the tender flesh of his left
leg. "Five, sir!", yelled Peter. And the head replied: "Right,"
and stepped up to James. James, who had been listening to Peter's
punishment in silent horror, vowed to stay as calm as possible so
that his replies could be clearly heard by his executioner. No way
did he want to receive extra strokes or to have that awful metal tube
sandwiched between his bare knees. The head proceeded in this way
until eighteen, yes, eighteen strokes had been delivered, before finally
putting down the tawse. By the time he had finished, all three boys
were sobbing effortlessly. Their badly bruised bottoms and frightfully
smarting legs felt as if someone was laying a red hot poker on them
and was pressing down on them hard. Ten minutes later their bonds
were cut loose and they were told to stand up. It took them all their
energy to peal themselves from off the back of that couch. But once
upright, their hands went immediately to their injured and ththrobbing
bottoms and legs, and rubbed. "Hands by your sides!", boomed the
headmaster. But he might as well have been a million miles away, for
his voice seemed to have no effect on them at all - the pain in their
rears was so intense. "I haven't given you permission to massage
your backsides, have I!", he roared. "Right, you'll get three more
strokes from me on top of those Matron is about to give you." And
waving his hand towards the table on which lay the pile of clothes,
he said: "Go and stand over there and take off your shorts, jerseys
and shirts." It took the three boys all their effort to bend down
and peal off their trousers for the bruised and wounded flesh seemed
to ignite into flames with every movement. Eventually, the three
boys stood in the centre of the room clad in just their vests and
underpants. Matron and the head couldn't help grinning at the brightly
red stripes and wheels made by the tawse on their quivering buttocks
and thighs. Matron picked up the three pairs of short grey socks
and handed a pair to each of them with the words: "Here, now get these
on, and be quick about it." The pain felt by all three boys as they
wrestled with the effort of rolling on their socks was agony to say
the least. "Ou! Ouch!", whimpered Peter, Andrew and James as they
bent over to pull on the socks. "Shut up and get a move on," snapped
the head, "else it'll be worse for you." Matron next handed them
the crisp white short-sleeved shirts. At least these were easier to
put on. There was no bending required. But then they noticed that
the shirts had very stiff collars as if they'd spent hours submerged
in starch. The collars bit into their under chins and necks and felt
very sharp indeed. Then came the dreaded shorts. Thick grey flannel,
with white nylon lining and a two inch inside leg. "Here!", snapped
the matron, "now put these on, and don't dawdle." Mustering up all
their courage, the three boys reluctantly began to put them on, whining
as the lining and rough flannel of the short hem brushed against their
legs. The shorts were very close fitting and showed off three well
rounded and perfectly shaped bottoms to great effect. Matron and the
head couldn't help noticing the expanse of unblemished bare flesh
between the hem of the boys' shorts and legs. "I'll soon rectify that,"
she chuckled to herself. The jersey was the next item to put on.
Once on, the boys found to their amazement that the bottom came just
below the waistband of their shorts. What, with their very tight
short shorts, half-length socks and tightly fitting jerseys, they
certainly looked like infants. Finally, matron picked up the blue
aprons and ordered the boys to turn round. In a trice she had got
them over their heads and told them to stand still whilst she tied
them up. Peter was first. Grabbing hold of the head hole, she proceeded
to pull down on it hard so that the bib rose quickly up to his chin.
She next seized hold of the right strap and thrust it through the
head loop and after taking up the left strap, twisted them into a
very tight not, causing Peter to cry out in pain. The bib stretched
across his chest and cut into his ribs as Matron secured the first
not with that of another. Finally she formed the two dangling straps
into a double bow and pulled them tightly together. When an apron
is done up in this way, it is usually very difficult to get it off.
An eleven-year-old would certainly find the task difficult as his
arms would be shorter and would be unable to reach up his back to
unfasten the knots, impossible even to pull it off over his head. Seconds
later, Peter was swept off his feet by the headmaster who carried
him to the far corner of the room where stood a high three-legged
stool onto which he set the trembling boy. Climbing up on to another
next to Peter's, the head proceeded to secure the leather straps of
a harness around Peter's chest and to fasten them up tightly at the
back. Peter was next lifted very gently off the stool where upon
he found himself suspended three feet above the floor with the leather
straps of the harness cutting uncomfortably into his ribs. James and
Andrew were treated in exactly the same way. Now it was matron's
turn to hand out punishment. With a flashing smile, she swooped across
the room, picked up the tawse and marched back and stood resolutely
behind the three dangling boys. "Seeing that you have behaved recklessly,"
she said, "I and the head have decided to treat you like infants,
which is why you are wearing those clothes, and shall continue to
do so for a whole year." The three boys could hardly believe their
ears. A whole year dressed in pre-prep clothes would certainly attract
undue attention. They'd be the laughing stock of the entire school.
Furthermore, the uniform would afford them little protection against
the elements. For one, their trousers were much too short, and the
sleeves of their starchy shirts only came halfway down to their elbows.
And as for the ghastly blue PVC aprons, besides attracting titters
and grins, would do very little else by way of keeping them warm in
Winter. These aprons hung two or three inches below their shorts and
were about ten inches wide, below the bib, that is, so that to a casual
observer looking at them from the front, would think that they weren't
wearing any trousers at all. "Now," she continued, "I want every
boy in the school to see that you have been punished - and punished
good and proper, which is why I am going to give you ten strokes,
five on each leg just below your tight little prep school shorts.
I shall also expect you to count each one. If you forget, then that
stroke won't count and the punishment will start all over again. Is
that understood?" An additional ten more strokes seemed a hell of
a lot to give on top of the eighteen they'd just received. Peter wasn't
sure whether he could take a further ten more lashes. Already his
arse and legs felt like they were on fire and he longed to massage
them. Matron ran her eyes over the backs of their legs, and then,
to their horror, said to Mr Jenkins: "I'm going to need those tubes
after all if I'm to give these legs a good licking." The three boys
could hardly believe what they were hearing. Peter hadn't had much
of a chance to examine the insides of his knees, but he knew from
the pain that they must be pretty badly marked. Peter was first.
He felt Matron's long nailed fingers clawing at his legs as she forced
them apart and once more inserted that dreadful tube and clamped it
around his knees. When all the tubes had been securely fitted into
place, matron picked up the tawse and strode up behind them. Crack!
Andrew let out a scream as the tawse bit savagely into the back and
inner regions of his left leg. "aaah!", he gasped. "one, ma'ma'matron."
And before he had time to recover, there was another resounding crack!
This time on his right leg. Both strokes had landed immediately below
the thick hem of his grey flannel shorts causing him to shoot forwards.
At the same time, he felt the straps of his offending harness cutting
even deeper into his sides which squeaked and crackled as they rubbed
against his PVC apron. "two two two, matron!", he stammered. Satisfied,
she switched her attention to James whose shorts, she noticed, had
slipped down slightly. In a flash she had grabbed the waistband and
had yanked them up before James had even time to glance over his shoulder. "I
rather think a belt is required for these," she said, to Mr Jenkins. Without
a moment's hesitation, the head handed her a snake belt. James watched
her as her long fingers worked quickly threading the belt through
the loops around his waist, before finally clipping the two ends together
at the front. James felt his eyes fill up with tears, but Matron took
no notice as she picked up the tawse and once more took up her position
behind him. After giving them all two strokes each, she delivered
the remaining eight in rapid succession leaving the boys with precious
little time to count them. By the time she had finished, their legs,
from the hem of their shorts to the backs of their knees were bright
red. The three boys could do nothing to hide the marks. Matron must
have guessed what they were thinking, for she said: "Now everybody
in the entire school will know that you've been naughty." There
were just three more strokes left to be delivered and the boys knew
that they were going to survive in silence. They could see by the
look on the head's face that he was feeling tired. This was the longest
punishment he'd ever had to administer and was glad that it was almost
over. "You might as well be kept in that position for my final beating,"
he said, opening his torture cupboard and pulling out his famous paddle. "There's
no need for you to count these last strokes," he said, walking up
to the three dangling and terrified boys. The head chose to deliver
the final three whacks to the backs of their legs just below their
knees so that by the time he'd finished, there wasn't a patch of unblemished
skin to be seen. Whack, whack, whack! Whack, whack, whack! Whack,
whack, whack! They howled and screamed and longed to be set free. "Right,"
sighed Mr Jenkins, returning the paddle to the cupboard and shutting
the door, "may that serve as a lesson to you all never to fight with
anybody again." With that, the three boys, to their intense relief,
were set free and told to leave. (to be continued)
More stories by Authoritative Pip