The Post Office Thief

Mr Sedgemore pulled his threadbare overcoat tighter around his body as he battled headlong into the wind. A light drizzle was falling and soon his feet would be wet. Unsteadily, he crossed the glistening cobbled street. He would soon be home. His wife would have collected their pensions so they might have the gas fire on for an hour this afternoon.

He unlocked the door of his small terraced house and paused. Something was not right. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen. They never had visitors, except sometimes when that young vicar came to spy. On the ground near the door against the wall was a backpack. What was going on?

He hung his overcoat on a hook and still wearing his jacket, he walked into the kitchen. At the table tucking into a plate of egg and chips was a scruffy young man. The man looked up and while chewing on a mouthful of potato he nodded a greeting. Mr Sedgemore didn’t like young people. They hung around bus stops at night drinking cheap cider and writing rude things on walls. This one looked like he hadn’t had a wash in days.

“Hello Albert,” his wife busied herself fetching a cup and saucer and pouring tea. He gestured with his head and his wife followed him out of the kitchen into the front room.

“Who the hell is that?” Mr Sedgemore rolled his eyes exasperated.

“That’s Geoffrey.”

“Where’s he from?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere to live. I said he could stay here.”

“Elsie!” Mr Sedgemore knew what this was about. She missed their sons. Both were grown up and had long since flown the coup. Richard was at the other end of the world in New Zealand. Mr Sedgemore doubted is he would ever see his son and his family again. Tony lived somewhere in London; they had not heard from him in a while. It was probably just as well, Mr Sedgemore thought. Tony was a bit limp-wristed. He never fitted in at home. He was better off out of it. God only knew what kind of life he was living. At least, Mr Sedgemore comforted himself, it was legal these days.

He knew his wife was lonely; she would see Geoffrey as a companion. Why didn’t they just get a stray dog?

“Where did you find him?”

“In the post office. He tried to steal the charity collection box.”

Mr Sedgemore’s face flushed. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. No words came. He was literally speechless, but the expression on his face spoke for him. “A thief! You’ve brought a thief into our house!”

Mrs Sedgemore answered her husband’s unasked question. “He isn’t really a thief. He was hungry. He needed money for food.”

“He is a thief, for crying out loud. Did you call the police?”

“No the people at the post office let him go. He looked so sad.”

“Ye Gods, Elsie, he’s really taken you in.” Suddenly, Mr Sedgemore was taken back thirty years or more to the time his son Richard had been caught stealing from the corner shop. Mr Sedgemore still had the whippy rattan cane upstairs on top of the wardrobe.

Elsie ignored her husband and returned to the kitchen leaving the old man gasping in outrage. From a distance he heard his wife’s voice. “Go upstairs and take a bath Geoffrey. Give me your dirty clothes and I’ll take them to the launderette later.”

An hour later Mr Sedgemore was still sitting in his chair, enveloped in defeat. There was no arguing with his wife. He loved her dearly even after suffering a lifetime of her whims. But this time was too much. How could they trust this thief? Wouldn’t he wait his chance and clear them out. What if he were a drug addict?

Then he had an idea. It was simplicity itself. The young man wouldn’t want to stay. Not when he learned what Mr Sedgemore had in store.

He went to the bottom of the stairs. “Geoffrey come down here please!” Immediately a bedroom door opened and the young man appeared. He had washed and shaved and changed into clean clothes. Suddenly, he didn’t seem so threatening.

“Go into the front room, Geoffrey.”

Obediently, the young man padded down the stairs and entered the room. He stood awkwardly, not sure if he was allowed to sit.

Mr Sedgemore had rehearsed the words in his head. Not looking at the young man before him he launched into his speech. “You are a thief. I do not want a thief in my house. However, Mrs Sedgemore has it in her head that you should stay. Well so be it. But you are still a thief and you shouldn’t get away with it.” The words come in a rush. Mr Sedgemore paused, looked at Geoffrey and concluded, “You should be punished. If they won’t call the police, I’ll punish you myself.”

Geoffrey watched impassively as Mr Sedgemore crossed the room to a sideboard, opened a drawer, looked in and withdrew a large wooden clothes brush. He turned and without uttering a word, he waved it at Geoffrey.

The young man blanched. He ran his hand through his hair. The silence was killing him. “You want to spank me? I’m twenty, I’m too old to spank.”

“My house, my rules. And if you are to stay here, you’ll have to get a job and pay your way. We can’t afford passengers. Not on our pensions.” Mr Sedgemore paused and gave a half smile. That should do it, he told himself. A spanking and he’d have to get a job. He was probably bone idle. Weren’t all young people? That was probably why he was on the streets in the first place. He wouldn’t want to stay now.

Geoffrey stared at the old man before him. He wanted to spank him? Perhaps he was kinky. He’d seen a few odd balls when he had been sleeping in a shop doorway on the High Street. Men who offered him money if he would lick their dicks for them.

“Go and pack your things. You should leave before Mrs Sedgemore gets back.”

Geoffrey eyed the clothes brush in the old man’s hand. It looked pretty solid, but Mr Sedgemore was old and weak. It couldn’t do him much damage. It would be a bit embarrassing, but nothing like having a throbbing cock in your mouth.

“Alright,” he whispered.

Mr Sedgemore craned his neck towards Geoffrey. “What, what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Alright.’ I’ll let you spank me.”

“Let me!” Mr Sedgemore raged. “Let me! Don’t think I take any pleasure in this young man. You are a thief. You deserve to be punished.” Mr Sedgemore’s blood pressure was rising. He needed to be careful at his age. “I am doing a public service,” he trailed off, realising how pompous that sounded.

He pulled a chair into the middle of the room and sat down. “C’mon, take down your jeans, get across my knee.”

Geoffrey’s mouth opened and closed. His face flushed.

“You won’t feel a thing on those jeans. Get on with it. Mrs Sedgemore will be back soon.”

Geoffrey stared down at the old man’s bony knees. Could this really be happening to him? He closed his eyes. He had to go through with it. What choice did he have? A spanking across Mr Sedgemore’s knee, followed by a warm roof over his head or cold days and nights on the streets sucking cock for his dinner?

He opened his eyes, unfastened his belt, popped the rivet at the top of his jeans, gripped the tab of the zipper and pulled. The front of his jeans fell open and with no effort at all he had them at his knees. He took a deep breath and lowered himself into position. He was a tall boy and Mr Sedgemore short. It was hardly a perfect fit. Geoffrey reached his hands forward and pressed his palms into the garish carpet. Behind him he bent his knees and rested his stomach on Mr Sedgemore’s thigh so that his bottom was raised to receive the brush.

Mr Sedgemore wasted no time. He pulled Geoffrey’s shirt away from the target area. The brush rose and fell in rapid succession paddling every square inch of the young man’s bum. Geoffrey wriggled this way and that, but the pressure of Mr Sedgemore’s hand in the middle of his back kept him more or less in position.

Scolding as he spanked, the old man took great delight in walloping the exact same spot two or three times in succession, making Geoffrey wince and then howl. His cries increased as the heavy brush stung his upper thighs with a vengeance. His legs kicked vainly, but they were stopped by his jeans snagged around his knees.

Geoffrey wasn’t sure how many licks Mr Sedgemore gave him; it could have been a hundred, it seemed to go on forever. All of the sudden, it ended and Mr Sedgemore released his grip. Geoffrey’s hands shot to cover his behind and he performed the traditional “spanking dance” hopping from one foot to the other and then standing on tip-toes with both hands plastered to his cotton-covered cheeks as he tried to rub out some of the sting, while the old man lectured him about his behavior and promised that if there was a next time, there was a whippy school cane upstairs ready to attack his bare arse.

He pulled up his jeans and stood uncertain. What happened next? He glared at Mr Sedgemore. The old man had hurt and humiliated him and threatened to do it again whenever he wanted. For two pins he’d smash the old git’s face in.

Suddenly, the front door opened. Mrs Sedgemore looked into the room. “Oh good,” she smiled, “You’re making friends.”



Other stories you might like

The troublesome lodger

Foreign language student

The dope smoker


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Troublesome teens. Never too old for a spanking, book


They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.


The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

– Extract from Put back in short trousers


The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.



Another free-to-download book you might enjoy




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Missed Opportunities

Richard stood by his bedroom door listening. Any moment now the front door would close and he would be alone in the house.

He could hear his mother bustling in the kitchen. “Come on, come on,” he was impatient to get on with it.

At last, the front door clicked into place. The eighteen-year-old dashed to the bedroom window in time to see his mother hurry down the road. She would be at work all day.

The boy pulled a straight-back wooden chair that was resting against the wall. It was his favourite chair. Often, he fantasised about that chair. But not now. This time it had a practical purpose. He moved it close to the wardrobe, stepped up on it, extended himself on tip-toes and reached for the John Lewis bag he had hidden on top.

The chair wobbled a little, but Richard steadied himself. Within moments he was safely on the ground.

He reached inside the wardrobe; grabbed his school blazer and tie and hurried out of the room. Seconds later he stood excitedly in the hallway, in front of the full-length mirror. He had been waiting a long time for this.

Richard was not a typical eighteen-year-old. He was about five-feet-seven tall and a little on the thin side. His mother always said he could do with “fattening up”. His tousled fair hair needed cutting and his face was scarred with acne.

He put the plastic bag by his feet and pulled on the blazer. It was an ordinary black school blazer. If it wasn’t for the school crest on the pocket it would be just like the blazers worn by tens (possibly hundreds) of thousands of schoolboys up and down the land.

He pulled up the collar of his white shirt and wrapped his school tie around his neck. He did the top button of the collar up and pulled the tie tight. He never wore it like this at school, but soon he would be visiting the headmaster: he needed to look neat and tidy.

Satisfied, he clasped the buckle of his wide leather belt and unfastened it. His jeans were cut loosely and the weight of the belt made them slide over his hips. Without unfastening the buttons, Richard tugged the blue denims to his feet and stepped out of them.

He paused to admire himself in the mirror. His white Y-fronts hugged his body slightly and contrasted against his hairless sun-tanned legs.

His heart raced. He bent down for the plastic bag, reached inside and extracted a brand new pair of school short trousers. They were beautiful; the real deal. Dark grey with sharp creases down the front and back. He stepped into them and pulled them up. The half-elasticated waist ensured a snug fit.

It said on the label they would fit “15 years”. Which school made fifteen-year-old pupils wear short trousers? Richard wished it were his.

It had taken him all his courage to buy the short trousers at the John Lewis store. Surely, the sales assistant would think him odd. But she didn’t bat an eyelid. She hardly noticed he was there. Perhaps there really were lots of fifteen-year-olds in short trousers that he never knew about.

His cock stiffened as he admired himself in the mirror. The short trousers were perfect; they fell to just an inch above his knees.

His outfit was almost complete. He delved back into the bag and took out a pair of grey knee socks, with red bands at the top. He sat down on the stairs and pulled them on. Then he laced up his shiny black shoes. He was ready.


He returned to the mirror, turned his back to it and bent down and touched his toes. He was ready for his six-of-the-best.

Richard had fantasied about corporal punishment for as long as he could remember. His favourite was making a trip to the headmaster’s study. In his imagination it was always some elite public school, where the boys boarded. He knocked on the door of the headmaster’s study, waited for the call from within, turned the handle, and pushed it ajar.

“Come in Rodgers,” the headmaster barked.

It was a huge study. The headmaster, resplendent in his flowing academic gown, stood in the centre of the room. To one side was an old, rather battered, desk that dated back at least a hundred years.

Dr Vigar didn’t stand on ceremony when it came to dishing out corporal punishment. A boy on the receiving end had to stand on his own two feet. Literally. Or to put it another way, the boy about to get a beating had to stand, bend over touch his toes and he had better not jump about as the cane cut his backside or there would be Hell to pay.

Richard entered the study. In fact, the headmaster’s desk wasn’t the first thing he saw as he went in. Behind the desk was a hat stand, six feet tall at least, and hanging from the top were six punishment canes of various sizes and thicknesses, all dangling by their crook handles.

Dr Vigar spoke clearly and decisively. “Stand there,” he indicated a spot on the rug that covered bare, polished floorboards. The headmaster already had his weapon of choice in his hand. “Face that way,” he used the stick to indicate the far wall.

“Bend over, touch your toes.”

Richard ran every moment through his mind; dozens and dozens of times; night after night.

He was wearing a posh green-and-gold blazer and grey short trousers. Dr Vigar, a fifty-something, swished his cane, touched it against the boys left buttock, took aim, drew his arm back to above shoulder height and let fly.

Richard saw his own smooth hands extended as they stretched out so the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. They were plain black shoes, of course. Highly polished: polished every night, whether they needed to be or not.

Richard also saw his grey socks, with green-and-yellow tops pulled up as tight as they could go. Woe betides a boy who wore his socks in any other way. The socks went to just below the knee and between them and his short trousers was an area of cold white flesh, maybe two inches between socks and shorts.

And, dangling in front of his face as he struggled to keep in position hung his school tie. A narrow specimen with large diagonal stripes: alternate, one green, one yellow.

Richard lingered on every detail. “Bend over, touch your toes,” the head had commanded. In one continuous moment he was over, fingers touching toes.  WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“Stand up, send in the next boy.” And that was it. No ceremony really, just a simple ritual, familiar to generations of schoolboys. In, out, and a searing pain in the bum at the end of it. And a stiff, aching cock.

Richard looked back at his reflection in the mirror. He had a nice bum; the grey short trousers showed it to great effect. He parted his legs to get a better view.

Richard had never been caned in his life and was never likely to be. They didn’t use corporal punishment at his comprehensive school. Nothing. No canes, no slippers, belts or tawses. Not like Albury Grammar where his younger brother Anthony went.

Albury was a traditional school. And that included traditional discipline: the cane. Lots of boys were caned at Anthony’s school. Once, Richard remembered there had been some kind of clampdown on smokers. One playtime the prefects had rounded up about a dozen kids who had sneaked behind the gym to light up.

Wasn’t that wonderful, Richard thought. All you had to do to get the cane at Albury was to smoke a cigarette. Wow, he would be a twenty-a-day man. Who cared about cancer?

A rattling at the letter box of the front door startled him away from his memories. Richard saw the outline of the postman in the opaque glass. Unsure whether the postman could see him, Richard dashed into the living room and waited for the coast to clear.

The postman’s next call was three houses along. There he momentarily disturbed Mr Alan Tuckworth, a thirty-five-year-old bachelor.

Alan too stood in his hallway in front of the mirror. He had no new outfit; he was very satisfied with his ageing and rather tatty academic gown. It hung loosely from his shoulders and covered his tweed jacket and most of his worn black-and-white-striped trousers. He rather liked the authentic schoolmaster’s mortar board that lay askew on his head. The tassel that dangled from one corner was especially pleasing. He looked exactly like the schoolmasters in the old boys’ storybooks he collected.

In his hand he thoughtfully flexed a thick, but whippy, crook-handled cane. It was quite easy to get the four-feet of rattan to form a bow. It was dark yellow and had notches every three or four inches along its length.

He swished the cane through empty air. In his imagination he was Dr Tuckworth of St Eiseldown public school. In front of him was a sixth-form troublemaker.

“You again.” He spoke out loud, for he lived alone. He flexed the cane once more, eyeing up the eighteen-year-old in front of him.

“Well you were beaten before. Six on the seat of the bags.” He swished the cane, admiring the swooshing sound it made. “It obviously was not enough.”

Another swish of the cane.

“So this time you will be caned on your underpants.”

Tuckworth’s imagination was in full flow.

Swish! Swish!

“Take your trousers down, bend over and touch your toes, Rodgers.”

In his mind’s eye, his eighteen-year-old neighbour, reached for his belt buckle …

Other stories you might like

First day of term

Late home from school

The fire-raiser




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Visit to Uncle Roy



Roy Denning was very “old school” and “school” was the appropriate word, because he kept three authentic swishy rattan school canes in a drawer in the kitchen and he wasn’t afraid to use them.

He knew they were authentic because they had the words “Birmingham Education” inscribed on them near the curved handle. A schoolmaster pal of his had taken a bunch of canes from school when he retired. He gave them away to fathers he knew who would put them to proper use.

Roy sat in his kitchen, watching the clock. Soon, very soon, one of those canes would see some action.

Across the city, John, Roy’s nineteen-year-old nephew, trudged through the damp streets on his way to the bus stop. It was not easy to get to Uncle Roy’s by bus. Routes didn’t go across town. You had to get one bus into the city centre and then another out again. The journey would take at least forty minutes, that was plenty of time for him to contemplate his fate.

He wore his thickest and newest jeans, but it would do him no good. He knew his uncle’s reputation. He had been quite close to the man’s sons. The two eldest had long ago fled the nest leaving only twenty-year-old Bert behind, trapped by his lack of education and poverty.

John had left school four years previously and had a steady job as a corporation bin man. But, he had been caught stealing records from a department store. The police gave him a slap on the wrist but he knew he would get much worse from Uncle Roy. He could have afforded to pay for the record, but stealing from shops had become a pastime. He and a few of his mates would see what they could get away with. They dared one another. If they got caught – which wasn’t often – the police didn’t do much. They had bigger fish to fry. John’s friends didn’t feel like they had been punished. But, they didn’t have an Uncle Roy.

His mum was distraught when she found out. The shame he had brought on the family. His poor dead father would be spinning in his grave. She would have thrown him out of the house, but she couldn’t. She needed the money he brought in each week. Her pay as a char woman couldn’t keep a roof over her head and food on the table.

It had stopped raining by the time John arrived at Uncle’s Roy’s terraced house. The cobbles on the street were wet and he had to shuffle along to avoid slipping. John had been there before, but each time he visited the dankness of the place annoyed him. The houses were old and decaying. Soon, like the other slums in the city they would be bulldozed and tower blocks built in their place.

It couldn’t happen too soon for John. Who, he wondered, wanted to live in a house with an outside toilet and no bathroom? His uncle had to wash in a tin bath or else go to the municipal bathhouse.

John knocked cautiously on the door. He knew his uncle was at home. He had been summoned by him. There was no doubt his uncle was waiting for him and no doubt what would happen once he got inside the house.

Uncle Roy was a robust man, larger than life, some would say. He had huge hands and big feet. His head was as round as a football and his ruddy face made him look permanently drunk.

“Come in John,” it wasn’t an unfriendly greeting. “Go into the kitchen.”

Uncle Roy followed his nephew down the passageway. They stood awkwardly in the kitchen. It was surprisingly large for so small a house. As always a stink of cabbage water, distemper and mould hung in the air.

John knew why he was here, in this particular room. It was where Uncle Roy kept his school canes. In a drawer in the rickety wooden table.

Uncle Roy spoke first. There wasn’t much to be said. It had all been said at John’s house. His mum had told Uncle Roy about the stealing. Uncle Roy hit the roof. There was much cursing. Then, when tempers had cooled, the sentence was pronounced. “My house Saturday afternoon. Be there or else.” Uncle Roy didn’t explain the, “or else.” What, John wondered, could be worse than what Uncle Roy had in store for him?

John stared at the linoleum beneath its feet. It had once been coloured blue but decades of shuffling feet had reduced it to a worn grey. His cousin Bert appeared at the kitchen door, keen to see the fun.

“Bugger off, Bert,” Uncle Roy frowned. “Go get me a paper. Take your time.”

Bert did not hide his disappointment. He sat on the stairs, put on his outdoor shoes, and then moodily opened the front door.

Uncle Roy pulled open the ramshackle drawer of the table. It took both hands because it kept sticking. He reached inside and pulled out a cane. There were three but he didn’t have to choose; they were all the same length and thickness.

John’s eyes followed his Uncle’s movements as first he swished it through the air and seemingly satisfied with that, he then tested its flexibility in his hands. It was a standard “senior” cane. Similar ones had peppered the backsides of older schoolboys since time immemorial.

“Let’s get on with this shall we?” It was an instruction disguised as a question. John gulped loudly. He had never been caned before; nor even spanked. It wasn’t that he was a goody-doody, since clearly he was not. It was just that no one had been around to give him a good hiding when he deserved it.

“Jeans and pants down. Bend over the table.”

John had expected this, but still his body would not obey his brain. He stumbled with his belt buckle for so long an exasperated Uncle Roy cried, “Do you want me to do it for you?”

No! It was bad enough stripping half naked but the humiliation of having his uncle take down John’s trousers and pants was too much. He got his fingers to obey and soon his jeans and underpants were resting on top of his blue-and-black bumper boots.

He shielded his cock and balls with his hands. Uncle Roy smiled, but said nothing. He swished the cane and then tapped it on the table top. “Bend over.”

John leaned forward, stretched out his arms, arched his back and gripped the table’s edge.

“Not like that,” his uncle was becoming exasperated. “Lay flat down on your stomach.”

John glanced down at the dirty stained oil cloth that covered the table. It looked disgusting. Nonetheless he eased himself forward and rested his chest on the table. His stomach pressed against the edge of the table.

“Raise your bottom higher. Stretch those arms out. Hold on to the edge of the table,” Uncle Roy ordered. “That’s right,” he added, after his nephew had shuffled himself into the correct position.

Johns forehead and nose pressed into the filthy oil cloth. It felt sticky. The smell of stale cooking fat almost made him gag. He stared down onto unidentified stains.

A cold breeze brushed across his naked haunches. The kitchen window was open. What neither he nor Uncle Roy saw was Bert standing on the dustbin in the small backyard. From his unstable vantage point he had a perfect view of his nineteen-year-old cousin stretched out across the table, his jeans and pants at his feet, his naked buttocks twitching slightly as they waited for the onslaught from the cane to begin.

It wasn’t long in starting. “Brace yourself,” Uncle Roy ordered. It wasn’t much of a warning. John had no time to clench his buttocks tight before the sound of the cane whooshing through the air was followed by a loud crack as it sank into meaty flesh. John’s howl could be heard in the house next door; due to the combination of paper thin walls and one lusty screech from the injured teenager.

He marched his feet up and down, trying to stem the tide of pain that started at his now-scarred bottom and travelled up and down his legs. He gripped the table’s edge tightly, waiting for slash number two. Uncle Roy was very satisfied with the deep red line that had immediately appeared across the centre of both of his nephew’s buttocks. It had been a year or so since he had last put a cane across Bert’s backside, but he could see he had lost none of his touch.

Swish! Number two bounced off the under-curves of the cheeks and was greeted by renewed marching. John stuck his hand across his mouth to stifle the yell he wanted to make.

Outside, in the yard, Mr Drury, the next door neighbour was intrigued. “What are you doing standing on that bin, Bert?”

Bert opened his mouth to reply just as the sound of a cane’s swish and a teenager’s yell poured out of the kitchen window.

“Oh, I see,” Mr Drury laughed, “Your dad’s giving someone what for.”

“Yes, my cousin,” Bert replied.

“Here move over, let me have a look.”

He climbed up next to Bert in time to see the cane lash down for the fourth time into John’s buttocks. He was not close enough to notice that four deep lines now criss-crossed John’s naked bum. Most of his bottom glowed dark pink. Soon four purple welts would form.

John sucked on his own forearm to stop him crying out again as slice number five hit him high; on the top of his globes almost near his spine. The teenager’s breathing was heavy. The pain was beyond his endurance. His head and temples throbbed every bit as much as his savaged backside.

Outside, Mr Drury atop of the dustbin leaned forward for a better view. He saw the sixth and final cut bite deep into the very centre of John’s buttocks. It hit at an angle and crossed two previous cuts, reigniting the already considerable pain.

At that point John yelled blue murder and Mr Drury and Bert tumbled from the bin, with a resounding crash. The lid flew off and rolled down the yard.

“What the …” Uncle Roy cried out.

“I’m out of here,” Mr Drury turned on his heels and was in the safety of his own yard before Uncle Roy reached the kitchen window. All he saw was Bert stooping to pick up and replace the scattered rubbish in the bin.

Uncle Roy summed up the situation immediately. “Bert get in here, now!”

The twenty-year-old entered the kitchen in time to see his younger cousin still prostrate across the table. Tears were flowing freely down his face. He seemed to have great difficulty breathing and was gasping for air. His backside was raw. Bert knew from personal experience that John had endured one hell of a thrashing.

“Get up John, it’s over. Let that be an end to the matter, but if you get caught stealing again I’ll give you twice as many strokes and twice as hard.”

Gingerly, John rose from the table. His backside felt like it was on fire. He lightly touched the raw flesh with his fingertips and was shocked how hot his bottom was. Conscious that he was half naked in front of both his uncle and his cousin, he bent down and painfully pulled up, first his underpants and then his jeans.

“You!” Uncle Roy turned to his crestfallen son. He swished the cane menacingly. “What have I told you before about peeping through windows?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed Bert down across the table.

John didn’t wait to see the spectacle. He was through the front door before the first swipe connected with the seat of Bert’s trousers. John shuffled along the cobbled street. It had dried and there was no danger of him slipping, but he shuffled nonetheless. Each successive step reignited the pain in his bottom as his underpants and jeans chaffed against the raw flesh.

He had two extremely uncomfortable bus rides home. He was relieved that neither conductor asked him why he was standing when so many seats were unoccupied.

Other stories you might like

Caning for England

Housemate pays the rent

Duncan and Uncle Henry



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The Dean of Dorm Discipline book



The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the latest free-to-download book from Charles Hamilton II.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:



Another free-to-download book you might like




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Fr. Pat’s paddle


The Catholic University’s Disciplinary Committee was drawing to a close. It had been a short meeting. Only one case had been heard. The term was over and most students had dispersed to their towns and villages across the Province for the vacation.

Moses, a twenty-one-year-old Mass Communications student, was left behind; trapped. He had no money for bus fare to go home.

Then he had an idea. He took the newspapers that each day were donated to the university by local media houses and took them into the nearby settlement to sell. It was not a success. The people in the shanty town were too poor for newspapers and most could not read.

His action was discovered; a Disciplinary Committee held and an admission made. Now, Moses paced nervously in an adjourning room, waiting for sentence.

Fr. Michael, Vice-President Academic, and committee chair, squelched uncomfortably in his seat. Two of his bellies overhang the waist of his trousers. Sweat poured down his back. The overhead ceiling fans were useless against the heat and humidity.

He wiped his face with an enormous bandana and spoked. “Well colleagues, the punishment for such as this should be a fine.” He moved his enormous buttocks in his seat, failing to find comfort. No chair ever made could quite accommodate the Father.

Committee members nodded sagely. They were eager to be away. It was close to five o’clock. Soon the daily rains would come. They wanted to be back in their homes with their whisky bottles and satellite televisions.

“But,” Fr. Michael’s attempted smile was lost in his fleshy jowls. “There is no point. Since he has no money, he cannot pay a fine.” His words of wisdom were greeted with low hums and murmurs.

“So, colleagues, don’t you think this is a case for Fr. Pat?”


“Good idea.”


The sentence was fabricated as “reprimand” and five self-satisfied Catholics waddled from the room.

Twenty minutes later Moses stood eyes downcast before Fr. Pat in an empty classroom. He seemed to have an extreme fascination with the rough wooden slats beneath his feet.

“You know you must be punished, Moses,” Fr. Pat had taught in India for more than twenty years but had never lost his Irish brogue.

The student continued admiring the pattern the knots made in the wooden planks. He knew he had sinned, but he just wanted to get home to mother and father and his seven siblings.

“Well Moses?” Fr. Pat squeaked.

Disturbed from his thoughts, the boy lifted his head. His deep brown eyes had lost their natural sparkle. “Yes, Father,” he whispered.

Fr. Pat walked across the classroom. A series of cupboards ran along one wall. Moses’s eyes followed the tall priest’s progress, but darted away as the man stooped down to unlock a small door. He knew what was kept inside; every student at the university knew.

“Yes, this is the one,” Fr. Pat was talking to himself. He rummaged inside. There was five paddles of various sizes and weights; but he was after his favourite. Satisfied, he straightened up and gently kicked the door shut.

“Moses, please take the chair from behind my desk and place it in the centre of the room,” Fr. Pat waved the paddle in case the young man had not understood.

It was not a heavy chair, but Moses still had trouble moving it. His hands did not want to cooperate.

Fr. Pat held the wooden paddle in his right hand and gently tapped it into the palm of his left. It was slightly smaller than a DVD cover and about one centimetre thick. Its handle was wrapped in duct tape to facilitate a firm grip. Fr. Pat had made it himself more than thirty years previously. It had travelled all over the world with him as he performed God’s work in developing countries.

Corporal punishment had been officially banned in Catholic teaching institutions following a history of physical and sexual abuse; but few of the priests took much notice.

Fr. Pat rubbed the paddle across his palm, it was smooth to the touch and despite its small size, very heavy. In experienced hands it would pack a punch.

Moses gazed disconsolately at the priest, as if seeing him for the first time. Fr. Pat was typical of his Irish race. He stood over six-feet-four inches tall and was built like a shed. It was as if he were constructed of two oblongs; his head and his torso. His legs were thick like tree trunks and the muscles in his arms bulged. His face was ruddy. Unlike, most of his priest colleagues he had never allowed himself to run to flab.

As Fr. Pat was typical of his race, so was Moses. He was a clear foot shorter than his tormentor with a slender body and spindly legs. His head resembled a perfect circle topped by closely-cropped jet black hair. His smooth skin was naturally deeply tanned.

The priest sat in the chair and spread his legs wide, creating a platform that would soon welcome Moses’s body.

“Stand there Moses,” Fr. Pat coughed the words. All saliva had drained from his mouth. The twenty-one-year-old student shuffled a couple of steps so that he stood directly in front of the priest.

“Now take off your Tee-shirt, please.” Like all male students at the university, Moses wore only a Tee-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare.

Moses closed his eyes. This could not be happening to him.

But it was.

“Quickly, please Moses.”

The student gripped the neck of the shirt and tugged it over his head. His chest and stomach were smooth and hairless, except for a tiny tuft above the left nipple.

Fr. Pat shivered, despite the heat and humidity in the room. He nodded towards a desk and Moses dropped the shirt.

The priest ran his tongue around his mouth and across cracked lips. “Please take down your shorts, Moses.”

The khaki chino shorts fitted comfortably low across the hips. Once the button at the waistband had been released, they slipped easily down his thighs but snagged at the knees. Without thinking, Moses opened his legs and the shorts fell to his feet.

Moses looked over Fr. Pat’s shoulder to a map of India on the classroom wall. He had never before studied it in such detail. Fr. Pat moved his knees a little closer together and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. Moses’s blue-and-white-checked Boxer shorts hung loosely.

“Now please lower your underwear, Moses.”

Moses traced the line of the border between India and Pakistan on the map while hitching his thumbs into the waistband of his Boxers and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them south to join the chino shorts. His hands shot forward to cover his genitals from view.

There was a pregnant pause while Fr. Pat once more adjusted his position on the chair. Moses was now engrossed with the topography of Kashmir.

“Step out of those shorts, please Moses,” Fr. Pat wheezed.

Without looking down, the student raised one foot and then the other before kicking his clothes a metre or so away.

“Now, Moses, I want you to put yourself across my lap.”

It was not a surprising command. Moses had expected such from the second the Disciplinary Committee had instructed him to report to Fr. Pat. It was expected, but he still could not quite believe it. Here he was a twenty-one-year-old man being told to strip off all his clothes and bend over the knee of this massive man to submit to a bare-bottom spanking with a wooden paddle.

Fr. Pat swallowed hard. “Please don’t make this difficult, Moses. Please do as you are asked.”

No student in his long career as an educator had refused to take a spanking from Fr. Pat. The priest had no idea what he would do if one ever did. He need not have worried, he had the power and authority of the Catholic Church on his side. Which young man would dare go up against that?

Moses turned his attention from the map and contemplated the man seated before him. His huge thighs were spread once more, instructing him to fall forward and offer his rear end for chastisement.

“Please Moses, it is important that you are submissive. Offer yourself for discipline. Atone and God will forgive.”

The student took a small step forward, placed both palms on the priest’s right thigh and gently lowered himself over. Fr. Pat was so huge and Moses so small that the student dangled. His hands could not quite reach the floor in front and his feet hovered in the air. His torso was almost completely accommodated by the priest’s thighs.

“Move forward slightly Moses, so that your head is closer to the ground and your bottom is higher.”

The student’s naked genitals brushed against the priest’s trousers as he manoeuvred into position.

Satisfied, Fr. Pat held the paddle in his right hand. He wasn’t quite ready to start the assault on Moses’s naked buttocks. With his left hand, the priest caressed the smooth mid-brown skin at the young man’s shoulders. He felt the muscles tighten as he stroked the student’s spine up and down.

Then, he changed the paddle from the right hand to the left. He patted and preened first the left and then the right buttock cheek. The priest’s hand was the size of a shovel and easily accommodated a whole cheek in its palm. Despite Moses’s slenderness Fr. Pat felt a lot of “give” in the globes. With his fingertips he pressed into the flesh searching for the most padded areas.

Moses closed his eyes tight. He had no choice but to suffer the priest. Fr. Pat put his right arm across Moses’s back and held him tightly in position. He was ready for action. Six slaps hit squarely in the centre of the buttocks, hitting both cheeks equally. They weren’t vicious swipes, but Moses groaned quietly as each swat struck home. Then a harder six, and another. The student raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he shut his teeth and did not make a sound.

“Ah!” he gasped as just two more weighty blows from the small wooden paddle bounced off the underside of his left cheek. His bottom was on fire with the kind of smarting soreness that hurts and stings.

With just two or three seconds between each whack, the spanking quickly became a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the wood. Moses grimaced and screwed up his face each time the paddle contacted forcefully with the once-smooth bottom. Desperate to stop the attack on his bare bottom, Moses struggled to stretch his hand behind him. But, Fr. Pat was an expert, he had placed the young man so far forward that he could not reach back. He was completely at the mercy of his punisher; and no Christian mercy would be shown that evening.

The student’s body made involuntary movements with pain; his shoulders and head jerked high as each blow struck his bum. His dark brown eyes were watering, but he incanted silently, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to hold out much longer.

As the whacking continued, Moses realised with shock that his rear end was aflame. It burned with a pain that bewildered him. Never before had he felt such pain. Every fresh smack of the paddle tore a gasp from him. The next dozen or so whacks were a little harder than those that went before. The pain was growing in his rear end and travelling down his legs. He struggled harder to break free, but the priest held him tighter around the body closer to his knees to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then, Moses’s resolve to take the spanking without fuss was broken. Tears poured down his twenty-one-year-old face and nothing he could do would stop them flowing. His body lay held tightly across the priest’s lap and he sobbed and sobbed as he pounded away. He howled and kicked begging the priest to stop hurting him.

“Keep still Moses.” Swat! Swat! Swat! “You’re getting what you deserve.”

Moses believed this. He did deserve it. He knew what Fr. Pat said was so. He pictured his mother at home; how ashamed she would be of him, a common thief. His family had been so proud when he was given a place at university; the only person in his village to have ever gone away. His family was poor – the whole village was – but they had all contributed with money or food to support him.

Now, it had come to this. He owed it to them. He must take his spanking and then pray very hard to God for forgiveness.

Another dozen on the left and twelve on the right. Smack, smack, smack. Then it was over. Fr. Pat rested the paddle on the centre of Moses’s naked back. The priest wheezed and wheezed; he couldn’t catch his breath. Blood was rushing through his arteries at such velocity he feared it might spurt out his ears. He gripped Moses’s body tightly, pressing the naked young man down into his own lap.

Moses’s body twisted and turned and kicked his legs; he looked like he was doing the crawl stroke at swimming. But, he could not escape. Gently, the priest rubbed his own calloused hand across the student’s buttocks. Every square centimetre of flesh had been ripped; blood had risen to the surface making Moses’s backside resemble raw hamburger meat. Both cheeks felt as if they were made of leather.

“Get up, Moses,” Fr. Pat released his grip and the student rolled off the priest’s lap onto the floor. The tears had stopped flowing but his cute smooth face was drenched. A rivulet of snot trickled beneath his nose. He paused for a moment then rose to his knees. In that position he hesitantly reached his hands behind him and with his thumbs gently explored the damage.

Fr. Pat was still seated but he rocked backward and forward desperately drawing air into his lungs. Moses could not bear to catch the priest’s eye. Uncertain what was expected of him now the spanking was over, he made a move to stand.

“No Moses,” Fr. Pat was drenched in sweat, his ruddy face now the colour of deep burgundy. He too couldn’t meet the student’s eye. He took the twenty-one-year-old by the right wrist and pulled him forward. He pressed Moses’s hand against his own tight crotch.

“If you finish me off Moses, I shall pay your bus fare home.”


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The spanking I thoroughly deserved


The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

I’m not a kid, I’ll be twenty-three next month. I’ve got a university degree and I’m a trainee with a multinational bank. I was seconded to a local branch recently. It’s in a small town, no more than a village really, in the middle of nowhere. The only place I could get to live was at Mr Mallard’s. It used to be some kind of farmhouse, I think. It’s pretty old and crumbling down in places.

He lets out ten rooms. There are lots of kids from the local agricultural college. They’re eighteen. They’re too young for me, so I don’t see much of them. I hear them a lot, though. They can be pretty boisterous at times. They come back late drunk or high and make a lot of noise. I don’t know if Mr Mallard has spanked any of them, it’s not the kind of question you ask.

I’ve had a tough time of it since I got the new placement. It’s a small branch and most people are old enough to be my parents. I think I’ve been a bit lonely. That might explain the behaviour that got me into trouble.

At first I used to phone my mum regularly and talk to my brother on Skype, but we didn’t have much to say to each other and we stopped doing it. I think I started to drink too much. I blame my behaviour on that; I never used to be like this before I arrived here.

I’d never been spanked before. The cane was abolished at schools about thirty years ago, before I was born. Fathers aren’t allowed to spank their children; if they did a ton of social workers would descend on their heads. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Social workers should stop them, but if that story in the news about the two-year-old kid who was tortured to death by his mother and her ‘’civil partner” – that’s lesbos to you and me – is anything to go by they won’t do diddly-squat about it.

Nor, will anyone do anything about Mr Mallard and the bare-bottomed spanking he gave me. I deserved it and if I behaved like that again I’d hope he would give me another good hiding.

It started on the Saturday night. I was drinking on my own at one of the many pubs in town. There’s not much to do round here but drink, there are no cinemas or clubs or anything really. I was having a cigarette in the beer garden even though it was pretty cold – you can’t smoke inside these days – and I was finishing it when I saw this bloke sitting at a table talking to his mates. He had a bald spot on the top of his head and I just walked up to him and stubbed my cigarette out on it. I don’t know why I did it; I didn’t even know him.

Of course, he yelped and jumped up, clutching his burning head. When he realised what I had done he pushed back his chair and went for me. I took a pretty weak punch to the face and hit him back and soon we were wrestling on the ground. His mates and some other customers broke us up. Neither of us was hurt much, but the manager threw me out anyway.

I walked round the corner to The Royal for another drink. The Royal is an odd place; it’s the nearest we have to a “counter culture” pub. The gays go there and also the political radicals, which around here doesn’t extend much further than the Green Party.

It was quite busy and I was standing at the bar drinking when an old queen I’d seen before called John came up and started talking to me. He is eighty if he’s a day. His claim to fame is that he once went to prison for having sex with a minor. It was a long time ago, but he won’t stop talking about it. One day he picked up an eighteen-year-old boy in a bar- the age of consent for gays was twenty-one in those days – and he took him home. They had sex and surprise, surprise – because John is an ugly geezer and wouldn’t have been much prettier when he was younger – the boy asked for money. He threatened to go to the police if he didn’t cough up. John had no money, so the kid actually went and reported him. The rest is history.

I didn’t like John; he gave me the creeps. Perhaps, I thought he would try something on me. Anyhow, to get rid of him I pushed him and shouted, “Oi, don’t touch my arse, you kiddie-fiddler.” Then I gave him a mouthful about sex and kids and the like.

In seconds half the bar had turned on me and I was surrounded. Now, you don’t want to get into a fight with a bunch of poofs; they’d scratch your eyes out. So, I thought it was time to leave. I didn’t even wait to finish my pint.

I crossed the road to The King’s Head. It was almost deserted, but a guy called Mohammed was there. I don’t know much about him, but I’ve seen him around town. You couldn’t miss him really, there aren’t many blacks in a place like this. I suppose he must have grown up around here, why else would he be here?

By now I was wired and drunk. A terribly dangerous combination. For reasons that I can’t remember – not that “reason” had much to do with it – I started calling him all the names under the sun. I’m not going to repeat the words here, but let me say that the British National Party would have been proud of me. They would want to put me on their recruiting poster.

I got thrown out of that pub too. I staggered down the street to The Hen and sat in a corner on my own to drink myself into oblivion until it was chucking out time. Somehow, I made it back to my digs and crashed out on my bed.

The following lunchtime – the Sunday – I was in my room having a wank. There’s this girl at the newsagents with really big tits. Tits do it for me every time. I wasn’t anywhere near to climaxing when my phone vibrated. It was my landlord Mr Mallard. He wanted me to meet him in his private sitting room. I was still a bit dozy after my excesses the previous night and hadn’t thought to ask him what he wanted. I would find out soon enough.

Mr Mallard was dressed in his best Sunday suit. He told me he had just returned from church and he had heard all about my exploits. All of them? I thought. I had a hazy recollection. He would probably be able to fill me in on the details.

“What the hell is going on?” He seemed genuinely concerned. “You seemed like a good lad when you first arrived here.”

I blushed bright red. I don’t think I had spoken more than two words to him in all the time I had been living under his roof. How had he formed any opinion about me?

He was angry. It seemed his fellow God-botherers blamed him for my behaviour. “How could you let out a room to someone like that?” was the gist of what they told him. I thought he was going to give me notice to quit. That would be a disaster. There was nowhere else I could go. I wouldn’t have come here in the first place if there were.

Then he said something quite extraordinary. He said what I needed was a damn good hiding. When I stared back uncomprehendingly, he rephrased it, “You need a damn good spanking. That’d knock some sense into you.”

I suspect my jaw might have quite literally dropped. Of all the things I might have expected him to say at a time like this, “You need a damn good spanking” wasn’t one of them. I had suffered a bad night; it wasn’t just that I had too much to drink I was shamed by my behaviour. I couldn’t believe I had said all those cruel things to John and Mohammed. And, that guy who I didn’t even know who I stubbed my cigarette out on. Mr Mallard was right; I wasn’t like this.

I watched as Mr Mallard slipped off his jacket and carefully put it on the dining room table. That’s when I noticed the large brush. It was more than a foot long and had a very large head. I’d never seen anything like it before. I discovered later it was a bath brush. I didn’t think people still took baths. If it was no longer used for its original purpose, it certainly was able to double up as an effective spanking tool, as I was about to find out.

Mr Mallard picked up the brush and sat in the middle of a huge old, worn leather couch. Until that moment I had never really looked at the man. He was easily over six feet tall and square at the shoulder. In fact, his entire torso was shaped like an oblong. He had defined muscles in his arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. I supposed his body was the result of working most of his life out of doors.

I stood nervously in front of him. I think I knew what was going to happen next. I could have run from the room but something that I can’t explain made me stay. I was mesmerized by the huge man sitting before me holding that enormous brush.

“Let’s get on with this shall we.” It sounded like a question, but I doubt it was meant that way. I shuffled a little as my landlord reached forward and with one hand on each of my hips he gently pulled my sweats and underpants to my knees. My cock hung limply between my legs.

Mr Mallard took no notice of my privates, he simply took hold of my right arm and guided me across his lap. I allowed him to rearrange my body so that I lay across his knees. The couch was so large and I was so small that my body was stretched across it. I folded my arms and rested my chin on them.

Mr Mallard pulled my tee-shirt half way up my back and the gripped me tightly around the waist. I was startled by the pain as the first smack connected with the middle of my left buttock. It was swiftly followed by another on the right. My mouth opened and closed with each successive whack. I was gasping a little, but the pain was not yet unbearable.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked, but there is nothing to compare with this kind of arse pain. You might accidentally hurt your hand or break a finger, but you cannot “accidentally” get spanked on your bare arse. It needs somebody to deliberately intend to cause you pain. And, that’s precisely what Mr Mallard was doing.

We must have looked an odd sight. Me, twenty-two years old, laid out across an older man’s lap. My trousers and pants at my knees and my bare bum bouncing up and down as a heavy brush crashed into my naked flesh. I sucked on my arm to stop me crying out as the pain intensified. I didn’t yet know it but the whole of my buttocks from the top near the spine, over the mounds and into the under curves were bright red. Soon purple bruises would form that would stay with me for many days to come.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking was getting to me. I crossed and uncrossed my legs hoping that this might ease the ache. It didn’t of course. Soon I was wriggling to left and right across Mr Mallard’s knees. It was as if I was trying to swim off his lap. This just seemed to encourage him in his task of taking my arse off. The smacks rained down faster and harder.

This knocked what little breath I still had in my body clean away. I was gasping for air. I realised then that I had been sobbing for some time. Tears were cascading down my face and snot dribbled from my nose. I clamped my top lip over the lower one to stifle the yelps my brain wanted me to make.

I don’t know how long he spanked me for. It seemed to have gone on for hours. My bottom was toast. I hadn’t yet had a chance to clasp my hands across my bum, but I knew it would be radiating enough heat to warm a small room.

Suddenly, it stopped. I felt Mr Mallard place the brush on my back. Please, I thought, let it be over. It wasn’t. Mr Mallard gently caressed each cheek in turn. It felt rather good. Then he smacked me hard with the palm of his hand. I wasn’t counting but I reckon fifty or so hard slaps smacked into me, mostly at the point where the buttocks meet the thighs. It hurt almost as much as the whacks with the brush.

Then, he really did stop. He still held me tightly face down on the couch. I could hear him wheezing. The spanking had taken a lot out of him. I realised my mind was remarkably clear. Is it something to do with endorphins or adrenaline? I should look it up on Google. The pain of the spanking had cleared my thoughts. Even as I lay there waiting for Mr Mallard to release me I knew what I had to do.

I had to get a grip on my life. I should stop feeling sorry for myself. I should stop antagonising people. I should take control. I should find a girlfriend. I wondered if the girl in the newsagents had a boyfriend.

I haven’t spoken to Mr Mallard since. I didn’t know how to thank him. What do you say? He has helped me change my life. I owe him a great deal. I won’t behave like this again. But, if I do fall off the wagon, I can be certain that Mr Mallard will take me across his knee once more and beat the living daylights out of me. And for that I will be forever grateful.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second