A Submissive Schooled

A short story, reminiscences of College days long past, but vividly remembered…

By bummerbeau

“Well, you’ve kinda screwed your chances of university this time, with the marks you’ve got on your A-levels,” exclaimed Jim’s mother crossly. Her anger and indignation were underlined by the heavy cane she brandished, and then laid down on the bed beside where Jim was sitting. She sat down beside him, the punishment cane between them. “All this partying, mucking about, chasing girls — you’ve just wasted your time!”

Jim sat on the bed, eyed the cane, askance, wondering what was to come, but at the same time hoping it would hurt.

Hurt a lot.

“This all means you must repeat your Sixth Form in another school, a sixth-form college. But let me share some really good news with you! Your father has had a big promotion, and this means we will have to move to another city. We’re going to look for a really nice house, or maybe even have one built to our design and specifications, with lots of space — one with a bedroom for each of you kids. Won’t that be nice?”

Jim nodded agreement, although this wouldn’t be as big a deal for him (he already had his own small bedroom) as for his two sisters, because they were sharing a room with bunk beds. He sat gingerly on the edge of the parental bed. “Will the house have a nice big TV room? Or a pool?” he asked excitedly.

“Might do,” replied his mother, “we’ll all have to get together, sit down, and discuss what each of us would like in a new house. Exciting times! Then we’ll see what the possibilities are, so we don’t break the bank with a huge mortgage — but we’ll do the best we can!”

“But there’s always a downside,” continued his mother. “During the time we settle on a new house and have it renovated, or maybe have one built, we’re going to have to live in a flat, which won’t be too big although it will have two bedrooms. That’s one for Daddy and me, one for the bunk beds for your sisters…and none for you. So we’ve decided that you’re going to have an adventure! Your sixth-form college will be a private boarding school, located in the countryside, in the north. I’ve had one specially recommended to me, and I’ve thoroughly checked it out. First rate! But it’s a good distance away, so you’ll be home only for Christmas, March break, and the end of term. When you’re home you’ll have to sleep on a roll-away bed in the dining area.”

“This will be a big adventure, lots of activities and sports, and a challenging curriculum. You’ll meet lots of other boys, ‘cos the school is all-male. The place has an excellent reputation, because its graduates almost always gain places in first-rate universities. You will have a chance to re-sit your A-levels at the end of your first year, and if you don’t get the standings you need you can return for a second year.” Jim’s mother went on extolling the delights to come, but Jim’s mind was filled with misgivings and forebodings. Still, he wondered, what must be borne will be borne, etc, etc.

“You might as well know from the get-go,” his mother continued, “that this sixth-form college has a strict disciplinary code, enforced with severe corporal punishment. Your eighteenth birthday was a month ago, so you have to sign this form, now, permitting the masters to thrash you as they see fit, with whatever implements they choose, for any infractions of the school rules.” She held out a piece of paper and a pen.

Submissive to his mother, Jim took the form, read it quickly, and signed it, full of misgivings.

“You’ll really want to pull your socks up, study hard, and avoid having to return and sit you’re A-levels for a third time. Don’t return for a second year — more beatings! Might be nicer to be able to go on to university.”

Jim felt his buttocks clench at the prospect of what lay before him, during the coming year at college, but also in the coming minutes as his mother got to her feet, grasped the cane, and sharply commanded him. “We still have your poor performance this year to punish, and punish you I will! Get on to your feet!”

Jim stood up as quickly as he could. “Now, strip!!” commanded his mother. “every stitch off! Quickly!!”

Jim speedily undid his belt and pulled his trousers and underwear down — he knew his mother wanted to see his bare ass, and his cock and balls, first off. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. Finally he kicked his trousers apart, bent down and removed his socks. Totally naked in record time, he turned and kissed the floor at his mother’s feet, prepared for the beating that he knew would follow. She was preparing the bed for him, placing two pillows near the edge.

“Up on the bed, face down, ass up!” commanded his mother. “Feet apart, eighteen inches!”

Wordlessly Jim complied with his mother’s orders, knowing what was to follow. “You know how badly you did on your exams,” scolded his mother. “How many times should I hit you with this cane?”

A guessing game. Suggesting too low a number would result in extra stripes because of the insult, while guessing too high would mean extra stripes. Catch-22! “Ummm, maybe twenty lashes?”

“Close, but not quite high enough,” replied Jim’s mother. “I’m going to give you twenty-five. Now, count each one, and thank me! Don’t lose count, or we’ll start again at one.”

Jim lay there, awaiting his punishment. He’d been beaten before, many times, so the agony to come was familiar to him. He heard the slashing swish of the cane an instant before the blinding impact, the pain, the heat of the impact. Then a silence. “Wo wo one, thank you mother,” Jim sobbed quietly. He knew is mother would wait about twenty seconds between lashes, to allow the pain to concentrate fully.

Again, the slashing swish, the pain, the heat. “T t t two, thank you mother,” he said between gritted teeth. Gonna be a long afternoon, he wondered.

The caning was over in fifteen minutes. Jim struggled to his feet and was placed between two mirrors so he could clearly see the welts, the bruises, the blood blisters — the scars of a savage caning. It would be some time before he would be able to sit down, and weeks before the marks disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~

That sixth-form school really opened Jim’s eyes to what submission implied, and it confirmed in his mind that he was a true submissive. Things went like this on the first day, after parents had finished drop-offs, hugs goodbye, promises to email often, etc, etc. (The students soon learned that the college’s internet was closely monitored and all messages were read — any negative comments in an email home or anywhere else would be intercepted, not sent, and would earn fierce punishment.) The students were lined up; returning students were given their dorm assignments, were told to select a token at random, and then they went off to unpack. A different fate awaited the intake group of about fifty students, who were marched into a classroom, each given a token, and ordered to sit down.

The Headmaster began to lecture, not to welcome the newbies but to tell them how lucky they were to be at his college, and what a privilege it was to be there. They were there to work hard, and to succeed in the examinations at the end of the year so they could gain admission to university. At the end of the year, if they performed exceptionally well, they might be among the group of each year’s intake who might be invited to return as Prefects, on salary, for a year. Their duties as Prefects were to tutor the laggards from their class who had to return to improve their marks. They were also instrumental in enforcing the discipline of the college. “To have been singled out to be a Prefect at this school is akin to winning a major scholarship. It marks you as superior, and gains academic respect,” he exclaimed.

As first-year students they would, he said, have to “fag” for a period of weeks during either the fall term or the winter term. Each of them was to be assigned to a Prefect, as servants. As “fags” they would be required to do whatever their Prefect wished, — shine shoes, press clothes, fetch, carry, etc. If they didn’t perform their duties properly, the Headmaster promised, their Prefect would whip them soundly. Jim felt the cheeks of his ass squirm and clench with anticipation at this prospect!

And the Headmaster went on, beaming with satisfaction, “I want to talk about discipline. You have all signed a statement agreeing to the corporal punishment which is carried out to enforce this at the school. It’s perfectly legal. Your parents have all been informed of our corporal punishment procedures, and you all have agreed that you will be subject to them. And in many of your cases that’s the reason your parents chose this school, and I promise you we will not disappoint them! We are strongly in favour of very firm discipline in this school, and this is enforced by severe corporal punishment. Offences will earn what we call “swats”, but this is a euphemism; they are far more than affectionate pats on the bum! Two, four, six, eight or ten ‘swats’ is the usual dose of punishment, usually on the bare backside, administered by whatever Master or Prefect has witnessed the offence. There is no usual whip or implement — each punisher has his own favourite — and some whippers may go harder than others.

We’re also aware that we, the masters and prefects, cannot witness or detect all offences against the rules. So what we have instituted is a punishment beating, administered each day at the end of dinner, to a student chosen completely at random. A scapegoat. Each of you students has been given a token in the random order of your entry into this classroom — that little circular disk you have with a number on it. Don’t lose it! As you leave, you’ll have to sign for it, and that will be the record that you have it.

Each day, at the end of dinner, a token number will be selected at random, and the holder of that token will be severely beaten, on the bare buttocks, by me. In front of the whole school. With my usual whip. To demonstrate, I am going to whip one of you now, chosen at random, giving him the same number of four ‘swats’, with my usual whip and usual severity. This will give you an idea of what you’d do best to try to avoid, and a forecast of the future beatings that each of you will suffer, one day, after dinner.

Sooner or later.

I’m going to select a number from this drum, and the unlucky boy whose number matches will have his naked ass serve for my demonstration.”

The Headmaster reached into the drum, drew out a different coloured token, and announced, “would the student bearing number 14 come forward. At once!” There were multiple sighs of relief at having escaped, but not from Jim — he had number 14! He got up and moved forward, as the Headmaster said “come on! Come on! A little more speed or you’ll earn a fifth swat!” When Jim stood before him, the Headmaster ordered “pull down your trousers and underpants!” Jim complied, and when he saw that Jim’s ass was already striped with a number of welts he cried “oho! Here’s a lad who is used to punishment!” He turned Jim around so that his ass faced the rows of astonished students. “Where did you get those welts?”

Jim replied, shamefacedly, “at home — we have strict discipline at home too.”

“We have strict discipline at home too SIR!!!” barked the Headmaster to an astonished Jim, and an equally startled room-full of new students. “Whenever you address a Master in this school you call him either ‘Master’, or ‘Sir’! You’re guilty of insubordination! That has earned you, in addition to the four demonstration strokes, an additional two swats (the usual minimum punishment for any slight infraction).”

The Headmaster couldn’t believe his good luck to be delivering an actual punishment beating on the first day of college! He picked up his heavy black leather whip, about 4 feet long and three quarters of an inch wide, from the table at the front of the room. “This is my favourite! I think you’ll agree, everyone, that it does a great job. Now, you’re facing the front of the room so everyone can see your backside, so bend over and put your hands on your knees — and keep still!!” When Jim had done, this, the Headmaster lifted Jim’s shirt well clear of his ass, making his buttocks completely visible, completely available.

The Headmaster stepped back.

Jim heard the heavy swoosh of the whip an instant before the blinding pain of the impact of the heavy leather, and he screamed with pain while keeping his mouth closed. This was as bad as mother at her most vigorous!! A second lash landed about an inch above the first, if anything harder and more painful than the first ‘swat’, but Jim still managed to keep from crying out loud. A third and a fourth stinging blows followed, with Jim barely able to keep from screaming out loud.

“Now for the two punishment lashes!” exclaimed the Headmaster delightedly. SWOOSH! went the heavy whip twice more, and each ‘swat’ inflicted a enormous welt on Jim’s agonized ass. He managed not to cry out until the second of these blows had landed, but by the end he was screaming and crying with pain and humiliation.

The Headmaster beamed with satisfaction at a job well done. “Look at the new stripes on this backside!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hand roughly over Jim’s hot aching cheeks and slapping them. “Probably take a week for those to disappear. I have the reputation, among those who know, of being a mediumly severe punisher. Better hope you don’t meet with a heavy hitter! You’ll all meet with this whip after dinner, sooner or later. There will be another student chosen to be beaten tonight at the end of dinner, as usual. And every night. And think of it — each day that goes by will mean that your chances of being chosen are greater. All right, everyone, dismissed!”

And with that he swept out of the room, whip in hand, leaving a huddle of chastened, frightened boys observing Jim as he massaged his agonized buttocks, tried to stifle his sobs and then pulled his underpants and trousers back up. The general agreement, among the whisperings, was fear of what they’d just witnessed, and desire to avoid whippings. Jim, on the other hand, felt satisfied at having withstood the Headmaster’s worst, and felt determined to suffer at least one whipping by each of his Masters in the college.

“This must be a school that Mother chose,” Jim wondered to himself. “I suppose the teachers are called Masters because we are the slaves. That’s a nice prospect…”

Jim went out with the general hubbub, got his dorm assignment, and began to try to settle into college life. Each boy had four “Masters”, one for each subject being taken: for Jim these were Mathematics, Biology, Physics, and Chemistry. Except for the Chemistry Lab, the Masters used to travel between the classrooms, while the students stayed put, and woe betide anyone who was caught acting up when the Master entered for the next class, or during the class. Each Master carried his whip with him along with his books and papers, and an erring student would be stripped of trousers and underpants, and either bent over the desk at the front of the room or quickly marched out into the hall and beaten. Either way, the student was soundly thrashed. Isn’t it true that, if you carry a gun, everything looks like a target? Well, wondered Jim, I guess if you carry a whip, every ass looks like an opportunity, and so there was no difficulty in attaining his goal of a whipping from each of his four Masters.

As did many of the other students — hardly a day went by when one or another of the twenty-one boys in his class were not beaten by one of the Masters or another, or maybe by a Prefect. For particularly heinous offences (such as swearing at a Master) the offender would be stripped of all his clothes, bent over a desk at the front of a classroom, restrained by two Prefects, and whipped by the Headmaster in front of the whole college, twelve lashes on the ass and thighs with that heavy whip that Jim had experienced on the first day. This didn’t happen often, but it sure left an impression!

Two of the Masters were so easy on Jim it was hardly worth the effort — no trousers down, just a few ‘swats’ that were really only that. The Biology teacher, rather than whipping Jim’s bare ass, hit him over the head with a canoe paddle–Jim wondered, ‘I guess he must be an individualist, or something’.

The boys would compare the stripes on their asses while they were in the big communal shower room after sports. Not an infallible measure, because some of the Masters and Prefects used paddles, which hurt like Hell but left no welts, just bruises.

Jim’s Chemistry Master, Mr. Mallon, who was also the football coach, wielded the heaviest hand in the college, as evidenced by the large angry stripes he left with his horsewhip on agonized backsides. Mr. Mallon was also used by some of the Masters who were disinclined to administer beatings personally — they would simply order the offender to attend Mr. Mallon’s study on either Tuesday or Thursday at 7 pm, carrying their punishment slips and wearing only a T-shirt, gym shorts, and slippers. The welts Mr. Mallon raised were commonly known as “Mallon marks” and they were visible for about ten to twelve days.

For repeated whippings Jim set his sights on Mr. Mallon. Although he didn’t smoke Jim wangled it so Mr. Mallon caught him with three contraband cigarettes. The college’s penalty for smoking was automatic – ten lashes of the most severe kind!

Ordered to attend on Tuesday evening, Jim showed up a little before 7 pm, and found that there were three other students waiting, terrified, in the hall outside Mr. Mallon’s study. On the dot of 7 Mr. Mallon opened his study door and barked “Strip! Rhymes with whip! Leave your clothes outside on the floor. Jim Prentice, you’ll be last.” He consulted a list in his hand. “Bob McRoberts, you first — get inside!”

McRoberts, who looked youthful with a smooth white ass, was a tempting target. “Have you ever been whipped before?” demanded Mr. Mallon, brandishing his whip over the trembling boy.

“No Sir — my my parents have never touched me, sir,” whimpered Bob, cringing at the wondered of what he knew was coming.

“Well then, this will be a new experience for you!” exclaimed Mr. Mallon, who restrained the boy before whipping him. He separated each lash by about ten seconds, to allow the pain to sink in.

The study door was left a little ajar, so Jim and the other two victims could hear the SWOOSH! of the whip, the terrible impacts, and the shrieks of pain. Each offender was summoned in turn, restrained, horsewhipped, and dismissed. The terror of those next in line was palpable as each victim in turn exited the domain of pain, sobbing, naked, and displaying angry red welts. Two of them received six lashes, the third only four. Then it was Jim’s turn…

Mr. Mallon had waited with keen anticipation for Jim to show up at 7 pm as ordered. His regimen was unvarying. “Enter!!” barked Mr. Mallon when he saw Jim, naked, awaiting his summons. ‘Good,’ wondered Mr. Mallon delightedly, ‘this lad almost looks like he looks forward to being soundly beaten.’ He took Jim over to his whipping restraints and fitted him up. Jim’s feet were placed in boots that, when locked, permitted no movement, with his feet about 24 inches aside. Leaving room for his balls and cock to hang down freely. Next Jim was bent over a padded bar that could be adjusted up-and-down to suit boys of numerous heights, so his balls and cock were free to move. Properly adjusted, it was like being, Jim wondered, literally over a barrel. Then his hands were cuffed to a bar in front of him, and the padded bar was adjusted so Jim was tightly constrained. At this point Mr. Mallon felt between Jim’s legs to assure himself that Jim’s cock was free to become erect. Finally, a wide padded belt, attached to the bar, was fitted closely around Jim’s hips above his ass, and this was cinched tightly closed with a Velcro fastener.