Dr. Henry Gross - Headmaster


by Juan Santiago <Paliza3000@yahoo.com>

Dr. Henry Gross was deep in thought as he stood by the window. His wife was ill in the hospital and his son, studying at a private university, was failing his exams. He looked at the cloudless sky and wished he were at the hospital comforting his wife.

A cough from behind brought him back to the present. He turned and looked at the boy bending over the large, heavy chair.

"Ah, yes, Jenkins," he said, picking us the cane from his desk. "Where were we?"

"Er - I - I dont know, sir," the boy mumbled, his face turning a shade redder than what it had been. "I think it was 7 or 8, sir."

"Well, then, I guess we will have to start from the beginning, wont we, boy?"

"Y-yes, sir." The boy shifted uncomfortably on the chair back. He was about 10 or eleven years old and his bottom was quite bare. His shorts and pants were puddled around his ankles. His round, plump little buttocks were streaked with deep red-purple weals.

"A round dozen, I think, we agreed, isnt that right, boy?" Dr. Gross asked kindly.

"Y-yes, sir," the boy squeaked, his bottom trembling with anticipation.

The headmaster was no weakling and during his many years of experience with small boys he had learned that leniency never paid. It was only the utmost severity that brought results, the only thing boys understood. So he brought the cane down with full strength across the underside of the childs small bottom, making the boy pant and gasp at the incredibly hot sting.

"One, sir," came the whispered response from the young culprit.

Another solid thwack just slightly lower down, and a high-pitched "Two, sir" could barely be heard above the boys rasping breath as he tried to control the agony in his backside.

And so it went, slowly, methodically, until the boy wailed "eight, sir" and clamped both hands to his mistreated bottom. "Oh, please, sir -" he cried in desperation, "it hurts so."

Dr. Gross nodded. "As it should, my boy. As it should. Next time you will think twice before you decide to skip homework. Should you forget, or bring in deficient work, you may expect 18 strokes next time you come to my study. Now place your hands where they are supposed to be and lets get back to our task. You have 7 more strokes to go."

"But, sir, Ive had 8 already..." the boy protested, his face wet with tears.

"That is correct. But then you moved your hands, didnt you? That merits - as you should know by now - 3 extra strokes. And what does 4 plus 3 add up to, boy?"

"Er - seven, sir," the child whimpered with resignation.

"Excellent. We have a mathematical genius at work here," the headmaster exclaimed, bringing the cane down viciously across the boys upper thighs. The boy cried out loud at the fierce pain on that sensitive area.

"Nine, sir!"

CRACK!

"Oh, ah, ten, sir."

CRACK!

"Aah, Owww. Eleven, sir."

The headmaster paused. If he had brought up his own son the way he was disciplining the boys in his school, he would not be failing today. Boys need the cane to get them to work. He watched the bare, wealed bottom twitch. Yes, you need to be very severe when dealing with these little scamps.

CRACK!

"Ooow! Aaargh! Er - um - Twelve, sir."

CRACK!

"Oooow! Oh, oh, oh, please sir - Th-thirteen, sir."

CRACK!

"Aaahhh, Owww - please no more, sir! It hurts so. It hurts so! Oooh, F-fourteen, sir."

CRACK! The last stroke hit so hard, again across the upper thighs, that the boy jumped so much he almost fell off the chair.

"I didnt hear the count, boy," the headmaster rebuked the crying child. "As you know, this is considered disobedience and is rewarded with 3 extra strokes."

CRACK!

"F-fifteen, sir," wailed the boy, straining to stay in position.

The last 3 strokes were placed across the lower buttocks which by then had been deeply bruised. The boy squirmed and writhed, fighting to stay down as he absorbed the glowing heat across the entire surface of his small buttocks.

The headmaster let the boy lie while he entered the crime and punishment into his book.

"You may get up and get dressed," he finally told the weeping boy who dragged himself off the chair back, painfully bent to gather up pants and shorts, pulled them across his swollen, throbbing bottom with little gasps and groans, then, after a polite "Thank you, sir," he slowly waddled out of the study, back to his class room.

When he returned, head turned towards him. His class had about 8 boys and 12 girls and they all stared at him. They watched for a while as the boy shuffled towards his seat. Some boys grinned, others nodded sympathetically. The girls mostly giggled, pointed and smirked.

"Well, Jenkins," the girl sitting next to him whispered, "did it hurt?" She put a hand on his bare thigh and squeezed. The boy moved away. The question was rhetorical. She had done poorly as well in her home work but, as a girl, was simply mildly rebuked while young Jenkins was sent to the Head. It was also a custom to give more home work to the boys to keep them busy after school. Boys tended to misbehave when they had too much time on their hands, while girls used their time for better purposes, or so it was believed.


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