The Contender

By Mike Ward

The Housemaster has never done this before.

Corporal punishment had been banned in schools even before he graduated, a move that he wholly supported even if he was left wondering about how he would have managed as a caner. The cane had still seen use from time to time when he was at school himself and there had been reports handed down through the generations as schoolboys passed on the knowledge about which masters were effective caners, or unnecessarily cruel, or inept and liable to land a stroke so that the cane either cut the skin and possibly curled around the thighs. To be caned by someone who knew his art and understood his instrument was an experience that even as a fifteen year-old he had appreciated. A few weeks later, a different offence, a different schoolmaster, and he had left the room in tears. It had not been the pain so much as the incompetence of an inexperienced master, the cane landing both too high and too low in a run-of-the-mill two-stroke caning. Would he have been any better? Would boys have whispered in the corridors about his amazing ability to combine power and control in a single movement? He would never know.

That is to say, that he should never have known. Playfully he had thrashed the cushion that usually reposed in innocence upon his armchair. The cane had been one of those jokey Christmas gifts given by a college friend who doubted that he would last a whole year as a schoolmaster. But a decade had passed since then, he was a housemaster now, responsible for the pastoral care and daily lives of forty energetic teenage boys.

From time to time he had found himself wishing that he could have recourse to the cane, but it was only a passing thought for he was genuinely committed to the observance of school policy and the law. But sometimes one had to wonder. Like that day when he had had to ask the Headmaster to suspend Downing, a fifth-former with a passion for horse-racing and an overwhelming inclination to bunk off school to place his bets with the local bookie. Was a suspension really better than the cane? As it was, Downing had returned from his fortnight away from school with lively accounts of all the racecourses he had visited.

The Housemaster picked up the cane. It was a proper cane. His old college chum had found it in an antique shop stuck among umbrellas and walking sticks. Genuine rattan with a lovely crook-handle. The canes he had seen during his own schooldays had been straight affairs, no curving handle like the ones to be seen every week in the comics of his youth. There was something about the curl, it gave the cane an aura of authenticity that he really appreciated. It usually lived with his own umbrellas and had been the cause of many a wry comment from visiting parents. Well, visiting fathers actually. Somehow the thing was invisible to mothers.

He flexed it. He had read that flexing a cane was not good for it, but it was a lovely movement. Somehow the length of rod seemed to communicate unknown messages between his hands, as if signals were being passed along it, a bit like that thing they used to do as children with two old cans and a length of string. The cane was still in good order, no cracks, no splits, still nice and springy. He wondered if anyone knew how long a school cane could survive. In the days of frequent thrashings, just how long would a cane on active duty have lasted?

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour. It was just a minute or two fast. So only a few moments left to back out now. Could he really bring himself to use this thing on the living flesh of a sensate human being? But he really had to know; what kind of caner would he have been if the rod was still in use? He hoped that he would have been good or that at the least, the boys would have said that he caned fairly and caused no more pain or injury than was absolutely necessary. Of course he was going to do it.

Maundrell was a gap-year placement, one of the New Zealanders who came over each year to help out with the coaching. The school was proud of its rugby and the Headmaster was convinced that the contribution of young New Zealanders was the key reason for the school�s recent successes. They usually came for a few months after finishing their first degrees. Some, like Maundrell, came between leaving school and starting at university. Big lads usually, and fast. The Housemaster had watched a coaching session only a few days earlier when Maundrell had run the full length of the pitch, ball in hand, taking on the full senior squad as they vainly attempted to defend their line. A nice lad too, nineteen years-old and assigned to this house to help out with the general routine, the morning and night-time rounds, the house matches, the daily tedium of life.

Unfortunate therefore that coming in from dinner last night, the Housemaster had caught a whiff of burning herbs, the old familiar scent of his own college days. Following his nose he had located Maundrell and Philps, one of the house prefects, clinging to the shadows by his study�s oriel window. They had come forward looking appropriately abashed, attempting the excuse that they were just out for a bit of air after having finished doing the rounds of the rooms and dormitories. An old headmaster had once taught him the wisdom of never making decisions in anger. He sent Philps off, invited Maundrell in for a chat.

At least Maundrell had had the decency to be honest about the grass. It was just something he liked to do from time to time before heading off to bed, it helped him relax. Philps, he said, had not shared in the joint. In fact, he wasn�t sure that Philps had known that it was anything other than an ordinary roll-up cigarette. Maundrell clearly didn�t know Philps the way the Housemaster knew young Philps, but he let it ride. If it was possible to let the prefect off then it would be best to do so, there were only a few months left in the youngster�s school career; no need to ruin it now.

But a gappie, technically a member of staff, indulging in illegal substances in the company of a schoolboy. It couldn�t really be overlooked, the lad would have to leave. The school had enough trouble dealing with drugs smuggled in by boarders and traded with each other. The parents would have rioted if they ever got to hear that a member of staff had been smoking joints in the presence of the boys. It was a great shame, a nice lad, but this could not be covered up.

Maundrell had been really good about it, totally upfront and admitting that his behaviour was inappropriate. But that just made it all the more difficult. The Housemaster suggested that if Maundrell wanted to resign with immediate effect he would provide a decent reference. It was Maundrell who suggested the cane.

There had been just enough of a hesitation for it to have become clear to each of them that this was very much a possibility. Some mysterious exchange across the floor of the room seemed to have taken place and communicated something of the inner truth of each one to the other. The Housemaster had flustered, arguing that corporal punishment was illegal. But he knew, even as he spoke, that he wanted to do it. And just as importantly, he knew that Maundrell wanted him to do it.

The lad was nineteen years old, an adult capable of making his own decisions, and not a schoolboy entrusted to the care of the school by parents who expected nothing but the highest levels of care and integrity from housemasters and all other staff. On the other hand, he was a boy. Young enough to make new mistakes, young enough to need advice. Young enough to have a whole future before him that did not really need to be ruined by a moment of foolish behaviour. They agreed a time, eleven-thirty the next morning. The boys would be in class, the cleaning staff would have moved on to the rest of the school.

The clock had chimed, the few moments had passed. The Housemaster took a couple of deep breaths and steadied himself. He was willing to go through with it. Was Maundrell?

The knock on the door indicated that the time had come. Maundrell responded to the invitation, entered the study and stood before the Housemaster.

�I brought it with me when I came over. It was just one of those mad moments when I was in a rush to get packed, flung in on the off-chance that it might be useful, maybe for fancy-dress or something. It�s what I was wearing most days until only a few months ago. It just felt appropriate today, somehow.�

The Housemaster struggled to stop staring. The lad was absolutely gorgeous anyway, but this was special. And he was quite right, the uniform was appropriate today, somehow. Afterall, it was unlikely that he would ever do this again, so why not have everything just as perfect as it could be?

Maundrell bent over in the middle of the room, his youthful body stretching easily as his fingers reached down and curled under the soles of his shoes. The Housemaster stood to one side, measured out the length of the cane, adjusted his stance just a little. He suspected that the lad was the least nervous of the two. The cane seemed to lift itself into the air of its own accord, but the descent was willed.

The Housemaster was taken aback by the way that the rod really seemed to bury itself for just that slight fraction of a second in the taut grey cloth of the boy�s short trousers. There had been the expected gasp, but no scream. It hadn�t been perfect, somehow he felt that he hadn�t managed to get that final and all-important flick of the wrist just right, but he was confident that it would come. Now for the second stroke.

This time when he lifted the cane into the void the Housemaster knew that he was really in control of his instrument. He paused, took a breath, eyed his target and brought the cane soaring down. And it happened. The flick at the very last instant. This time there was a yelp, the boy had really felt that one. The Housemaster stood back, there was no need to rush.

He told Maundrell to adjust his position. The Housemaster didn�t like the way the tendons on the lad�s legs had visibly tightened, it didn�t look safe. The boy drew his hands further up his legs, just below the scarlet turnover tops of his kneesocks. The new position was a bit more relaxed, the shorts just a little less tight across the buttocks, but the lad still presented a beautiful target for the third stroke.

Maundrell remained bent over in that position while the Housemaster crossed to the desk and sipped some water. His mouth was incredibly dry, and across his chest he felt just that little bit of tightness. He really was nervous, feeling the pressure to get this one chance just right. It could never happen again, all the more reason for taking his time. He leant back against the desk and savoured the sight of the lad, still in position, but looked at from the side presenting the most beautiful of images. The Housemaster allowed his eyes to soak in every single inch. The polished black shoes, the grey kneesocks, the tanned muscular thighs, the tight grey short trousers, the light grey shirt, the short sleeves of the shirt revealing nut-brown forearms ending in those powerful hands firmly clasped around his calves. The sun-bleached hair hanging loose around a head that was held almost parallel to the floor. A picture of sheer perfection, a moment to be treasured for the rest of his life.

The Housemaster returned to his place near the boy, raised the cane quickly and brought it down even more speedily. It was, he just knew, the perfect stroke. Maundrell actually screamed out the words, �Oh Sir! Please Sir!�, but he stayed in place waiting for the last two strokes.

Can perfection be improved? That fourth stroke really had been very, very good, but those final strokes seemed to be even better. There was something about the way the end of the cane seemed to act like a spring under tension, adding even more energy to the force deployed. Between those last two strokes the Housemaster caught sight of himself in the big mirror over the fireplace and was shocked by a moment of misrecognition. He looked different somehow. It took a second or two and then he realised, he was looking at a man who had achieved an understanding of the most important of truths; the truth about himself.

The sixth stroke was mere confirmation. In the corridors the boys of old would have spoken about him in awed whispers. Not a single boy would have wanted to have to bend over and be caned by him. Not a single boy would have wanted to be caned by anyone else. He would have been a contender.

� Mike Ward 2006

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