THE INSTRUCTOR

Author: John Crouch sixbest675@aol.com

It was like being grounded all over again. OK, I was 20 and well beyond such parental restrictions. In fact I had a flat of my own and a reasonably well paid job. But one by one I was losing my friends and missing out on half the fun. The problem was simple. They had passed their driving tests, bought cars and suddenly had a life that might have been based on another planet. I couldn't even bum lifts or act as the tea total driver of the night.

Just when I had really started to give up (after my third failure with a national driving school) I was bemoaning my fate to my old school pal James. He told me that he hadn't been the natural driver that all boys are supposed to be and had nearly quit himself. He seemed a bit nervous on the topic and I assumed that it was just his pride. I blurted out that I would do anything or pay as much as I could afford to pass the wretched test and gain my freedom and rejoin my peers.

"Well you could always try my last and successful instructor. He is a bit......." He hesitated. ".....well, I suppose one would say heavy going but he does get results."

I must have looked puzzled because, grinning slightly, James continued "Remember old Dowling, or "Flogger" Dowling to give him his full title? He's a bit like him."

Memories did indeed flood back. The most vivid was of James himself stretched over the bottom rail of his bedstead in the long dormitory, his grey regulation shorts stretched to bursting with his muscled rugger players arse as Dowling laid into him with six very meaty strokes of the cane. It had been a sight worth seeing despite the fact that immediately afterwards I was to receive the same! So it was that I was to sign up for a course of instruction with Hector Martindale.

"Of course, I tell all my pupils, at the very outset, that my name should be Hector Martinet not Martindale" he said as I sat nervously behind the wheel of his rather elderly car. I drove jerkily and without anticipation around the now familiar streets that formed part of the test route in the town. He gave his first diagnosis; "Too tense by far." Undeniably true. "I want" he said "you to keep driving. You've obviously got the basics ... not much more than the basics" as we swerved round a milk float, "but you need to be doing it more fluently and to do that believe it or not I intend to distract you. We are going to hold a conversation whilst you drive so that sometimes your mind will be on the conversation and the driving will be on autopilot as it were. Sometimes you will find that your concentration is taken up more by a hazard or a manoeuvre and then the conversation will dry up or become reflex - do you follow?" I didn't really but I nodded assent anyway and we trundled on.

"Where did you go to school?" I told him. "Was it a strict school?" I hadn't really thought about it and I hadn't really much to compare it with but I said that I imagined it was. "were you ever beaten?" I was surprised by the promptness of this question and by the odd reaction that it provoked in me. More distracted than intended, perhaps, we glanced gently against the kerb and, after a brief squeal of rubber, I corrected our line and continued more or less on the intended course. I told him, my mind half taken up with the driving and my sweaty palms relaxing slightly on the wheel, that there had been a couple of masters who slippered and caned pupils quite regularly but they were always fair overall. In fact after several fourth and fifth form slipperings and canings the French master had succeeded in getting me from somewhere down in the dregs to the top set in French and that with his groundwork a failure had been turned into a decent 'A' level I found myself telling him all about it, easily done, with my mind halfway otherwise occupied and with no need to look at him directly. After a while this conversation dried up.

"Now" he said looking across directly at me and beaming an unexpected smile,

"You may not realise it but you have actually driven the last couple of miles, whilst your mind was little distracted, far better, except for touching the kerb, than any you have probably driven before. "I blinked at the realisation that I had been travelling along quite proficiently whilst absently answering his questions. I also realised that his directions had taken us toward the edge of town and out toward a much quieter area.

"Slow down now and prepare to turn left." I turned the car left, as directed into a small lane, almost a track. It led off abruptly between fields and rapidly became even narrower. A young guy was working in one of the fields beside a tractor and trailer. Martindale directed our progress to the left again and I glimpsed a sign saying 'Will Farm Only' . A little further and I saw ahead that the track widened briefly between the trees to form a passing place against oncoming vehicles.

"Pull in as close as you can to the left hand side, No, move forward a bit and then reverse back so that you move even closer to the side! " I did so.

"Right" he said looking at the clip board on his lap, "I have made notes upon your progress and will read them to you and comment upon them. A good general performance has been let down careless mistakes which would cost you the test. They are as follows ..."

I suppose that as well as the kerb touching there were about eight. Impatience at the milk float and getting too close to it before veering round it. Rolling over a junction clearly marked as a compulsory stop. Allowing my speed to rise over the limit twice. Passing parked vehicles too close when the oncoming side of the road was clear. Fumbling a gear change so that I had to drop down a gear and work my way up again. "Nothing life threatening perhaps, but all unnecessary, careless and avoidable. Just the sort thing that spoiled your French grades really." He said this as he looked up from the board, a quizzical look in his eye "We'll have a leg stretch then drive back to your home."

I got out of the car. I think that I half realised, but still not quite believed, what hidden meaning had lain in those words of his. As I eased away the usual stiffness from tension of driving I found my mouth was dry and I avoided looking back at Mr. Martindale. Despite the closeness of trees obstructing the passenger door Mr. Martindale slid out of the passenger side and moved round to the rear of the car. He opened the boot of the car and nodded toward it, drawing my attention, I looked in. Laying in the almost empty boot was a car rug, neatly folded and laid flat on the floor. As I watched he lent down and folded over the top layer of the rug. Between the doubled rug, now opened to twice its width was a long straight handled cane. I eyed it nervously. With a faint smile at my reaction, which was obviously as he had anticipated, he picked it out of the boot and closed the 1id softly onto its well-oiled catch. He signalled that I should stand to the back of the car and bend right over boot. Mesmerised I did so, turning my head to one side so that I could see him I watched as he moved back to the side of the car, opened the door a little and retrieved the clip board. He motioned me to move across to the offside of the boot and laid the clip board on the passenger side where he looked down on it and unclipped a felt tip pen from the board itself.

"First we will deal with the minor items" he said and he chose one "four I think..." and the cane tapped briefly at my arse. I wiggled involuntarily.

"Keep still!" He snapped. Thwack! I gasped ouch.. The first, harder than I had expected, harder than I remembered from school. Thwack! The second a fierce flame of pain that shot through my nerves and burned upward into my brain. Thwack. The third. Ouch ough.... Panic. This was the first item, a minor one he had said, how many had there been? I couldn't take I just couldn't stand it. One part of my mind said this was silly, I was paying for the lessons, I was in charge, I could get up and walk away .... but for some reason I know that either I couldn't or even stranger I wouldn't. Thwack! Seemingly a little milder flush of warmth, pain only where the stinger crossed another. A break. He let me rub ~ burning arse. Then another set of four of the best that had me yelping and bucking.

"And now the more stupid items. Stand up. Drop your trousers and then resume the position." I looked at him pleadingly, my face reddening. Damn it, I was near to tears. My mind carried back to school. The mixture of fear and determination to see it finished without further loss of face. I released my belt buckle, fumbled with the button and flies. With resignation I released the band of my trousers and they slid to my ankles. I resume the position. Hands reached either side of my white cotton pants pulling at the leg seam and flattening and straightening the material across my rump. Strangely his firm hand on my mature backside felt good. The further offences were read out and carefully ticked off by the squeaking pen. Six fast, hard cuts had me pressing my crotch into the cool hard boot lid between strokes.

"Nearly over then, just the damage to my tyres to be settled. " Again the hands, this time tugging at the waist band of my briefs. Easing them down across my burning arse and thighs until they lodged ridiculously at the level of my knees. At that moment I heard the deep rattling rumble of a diesel engine approaching up the lane toward the passing space. In a panic I reached down to grab my clothing and started to straighten myself before the arrival of whatever vehicle approached.

"Stay there!" This, so sharp that despite my fear of our discovery I froze in position trousers still at my ankles, pants at my knees. I pushed my face harder down onto crossed forearms determined that despite this madness and humiliation, if not imminent arrest, no one was going to see my face. My big butt throbbed relentlessly. The engine grew louder and I ground my face down onto my arms. Go past, go past. I was mentally begging the vehicle. By now I could almost feel the heat of the engine alongside my naked backside as it drew past. Then it stopped. I moved my head slowly to the side, still covering my features but sneaking the smallest view. Gazing down from way above me, with a super view of my misery, was the young farm worker astride his tractor. He smiled down at me nodding his head from side to side in mock despair.

Thwack! Distracted and off-guard the fires of hell shot through my bare flesh and I let out a long authentic cry. Ooooooh, Sir .... Sir ....aahhhg.

"Be a man." It was Martindale speaking quietly, close by my ear against the thump of the idling diesel.

"Nearly over. You've taken your medicine very well and your bottom will only be sore for a couple of days just five more ... and then my former pupil Richard there has asked for a trip down memory lane. As a reward you may watch as I deal with his meaty backside.

Richard passed fourth time, didn't you, Richard, but I only started teaching him after his third attempt!"