Over the schoolmaster’s knee

z used drawing athlete

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

I can remember it as if it were yesterday: 1985. I was eighteen years old. A senior sixth-former at St. Jack’s Grammar. A prefect, no less. He was Mr. Braithwaite, head of the History Department. A lay priest as well. And, Head of Discipline for the entire school.

I don’t suppose we thought much of it at the time. School was school. Nobody was supposed to enjoy it. You went to classes, kept your mouth closed (unless you were asked a direct question by a master and then woe betide you if you didn’t know the answer.) You did as you were told. And if you didn’t you got a sore arse. That just about sums up my schooldays.

Even in the sixth form. Even if you were a prefect.

Braithwaite had a collection of torture instruments. I don’t know how many whippy crook-handled canes he had. Long ones; short ones. Thick ones; thin ones. A rattan cane for every occasion. Every occasion, except for when he decided to use the leather taws. Two-tailed. Three-tailed, he had plenty of those too. Nearly two feet of heavy leather; delivered with vigour across the palm of the hands. Scorching! He always asked which hand you wrote with. Then he’d whip the other one until it was red raw.

A gym slipper – the old-fashioned plimsoll with springy rubber soles, not the trainers we have today. Sized eleven. Big. Hard. It covered the whole of one buttock cheek. Whap! Ouch! The pain was intense. Even across trousers and pants. Think how bad it was with only thin cotton gym shorts to protect you.

“Bend over. Touch your toes.” I wonder how many times Mr. Braithwaite said that in all the years he was at the school. Mister Braithwaite. Even after so long, I still can’t help thinking of him as Mister Braithwaite.

He had a special room that he used for punishment sessions. Each lunchtime and often at four-fifteen after school had ended for the day there would be two or three boys lined up outside. Trembling. Waiting for the call, “Enter.” It didn’t matter how many visits a boy made to Mr. Braithwaite, he could never get used to it. The fear. What would Mr. Braithwaite do to you today? What implement would he use? How many strokes? Dear God! Trousers up or trousers down?

Or, as with me: in your PE kit. This one time. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Braithwaite had dealt with me, and even though there were only six weeks to go before I left school forever, it wasn’t the last. But never before like this.

I hated Wednesday afternoons. Compulsory sports. Even for the sixth-formers. I was bookish, a nerd if you like, I would have been very happy to spend the afternoons in the library. Reading. Swotting up for my forthcoming English Literature exam. Doing something useful.

Instead, Trubshaw the PE master, sent us on a road run. The lazy good-for-nothing couldn’t even be bothered to organise some actual games. So, a couple of dozen eighteen year olds set off on a three-mile run around town. Trebilcock and Howerstone were the only ones to take it seriously. The rest of us ran for a while, jogged for a bit more and walked the rest. Who cared?

“Don’t care was made to care.” There’s some nursery saying like that isn’t there? I’ll Google it later to find out. Nobody had told us we were being timed. “Be back at school by three-fifty-five or you’ll cop it.” That’s what bone-idle Trubshaw should have told us. He should have; but he couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t have long to tell this story, so I’ll cut to the chase. Eight of us. Eight! One in three of the group ended up in a line outside the punishment room. With me at its head. When the punishment queue is in alphabetical order it doesn’t pay to have a name like Albertson.

Braithwaite was a rangy, thin-haired man with a buzzard’s-beak nose. He must have been still quite young at the time. Even today, after so many years, I remember those steely-blue eyes. Cold as ice. His nostrils seemed to flare when he prepared to deliver a beating.

Me? I was eighteen years old and despite my distain for physical activity, I was in pretty good shape. The beer belly and the jowls arrived during my thirties. I had a twenty-seven-inch waist and a thirty-three-inch chest. Why do I remember that?

I expected a caning. Six very hard slashes across the seat of my PE shorts. They were thin cotton and because I was growing out of them, they were a bit tight across the buttocks. We weren’t allowed to wear pants under our shorts, so six-of-the-best would take my arse off. I knew that and resolved to take my caning with fortitude. I suppose by this time in my school career I had developed a very high pain threshold.

I stood there waiting. In my white shorts and white sleeveless singlet. It was late spring or early summer, but I still shivered. The punishment room was dark and dank. There was only one small opaque window. It didn’t let much light in.

Mr. Braithwaite admonished me. His tone was imperious. You would have thought I had been caught robbing the school safe, not dawdling on a town run. He didn’t say much. He assumed, as he always did, that he was in the right. The mournful schoolboy before him was never allowed to speak in mitigation.

Then, it happened. It was so unexpected it left me speechless. Rooted to the spot.

Mr. Braithwaite opened a cupboard door and took out his size-eleven plimsoll. It was dirty white. Us boys would never have gotten away wearing these for gym class. Three whacks, touching toes, crash, crash, crash. That was the penalty for wearing unclean PE kit. Mr. Braithwaite flexed the plimsoll between both hands. I could see it was a mighty springy shoe. The sole was worn to a sheen. It had seen a lot of action and probably not all of it on the running track.

I stood transfixed as Mr. Braithwaite gripped the back of an upright wooden chair and placed it in the very centre of the room. He sat down and spread his legs wide. Then he growled at me. “Albertson, take down your shorts and bend over my knee.”

My jaw probably quite literally dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Shorts down? Bend over his knee?

I blabbered. “B… b… b…”  I wanted to say but I was wearing no pants. If I took my shorts down I would be bare arsed. Hadn’t he realized that? Surely, once he knew that he would change his mind and give me a whacking with the plimsoll on my shorts.

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee, or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

The headmaster. That was no option. I’d probably get a heck of a caning from the Beak. Then, because I refused to accept punishment, he would suspend me from school. With exams coming up I couldn’t afford to miss classes. I had ambitions. I needed those A-levels.

I stared down at Mr. Braithwaite’s legs. He had parted them so far, I had a perfect view of his crotch, encased in the cotton of his trousers. I didn’t look at his cock, I concentrated on his thighs that presented an ideal platform for me to bend over and present my bottom for punishment.

But, first I had to remove my shorts. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I had been naked in public many times before. We boys were not shy in the showers after games. Even now, I can recall the size of Thompson’s donger.

But, I had never before offered up my bared buttocks for inspection at such close quarters. Bending over to accept a caning was an act of submission; every schoolboy and schoolmaster knew that. But, the cane was delivered at arm’s length and across a clothed bottom. There was distance between the punisher and the punished. There was no intimacy involved. And none was intended. It was a business process. Something that had to be got through. Then everybody could move on with their lives.

A bare-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was something altogether different. It was something that a father might administer to a deserving son. It was intimate. It was meant to be. The father was saying, “I am doing this because I love you.”

I just knew I had to let him do it to me. I had no choice. He was the master. I was the schoolboy. Eighteen years old, maybe, but a schoolboy nonetheless.

“Quickly,” Mr. Braithwaite was anxious to get going. After all, I was only the first in a long line of sixth-formers he wanted to spank bare-bottomed that afternoon.

What happened next is as clear as a bell in my memory. I pulled down my shorts and placed myself over his knees. It was memorable as it was the first and last time I was spanked in this way. I remember I fitted quite snugly. My arms were stretched ahead of me and the palms of my hands rested comfortably against the vinyl floor covering. My head was so low I could see under the chair behind me. My white cotton shorts were bunched at my feet. My toes hardly brushed the floor.

My own cock was pressed deeply into Mr. Braithwaite’s body. I suppose I must have been quite a weight against him. Even so he pressed his left hand down hard across my shoulders, pinning me against his crotch. My buttocks must have been high above his right thigh. This would have given him a terrific view of my crack and hole.

My bum cheeks twitched in anticipation. How much would the plimsoll hurt against my bare flesh? I had been spanked previously with a similar slipper across the shorts and that had hurt like hell.

I would have to wait before I found out. Mr. Braithwaite wasn’t quite ready. I felt his hand – and it was surprisingly soft – caress my cheeks. With circular motions, he gently followed the contours of my right globe from the top near the spine, across the mound and into the under-curves. Then he travelled further south down my thigh and almost to my knee. Then he did it all over again on my left side.

Then, he spanked me. With his hand. Whack-whack-whack. He kept up quite a rhythm. First my right cheek, then my left. I gasped. It didn’t hurt, but I was taken by surprise. I had expected the searing pain as the springy rubber-soled plimsoll struck home. Instead, he was giving me love-taps.

This went on for some time. I lay face down, staring at the vinyl floor. How absurd that I still remember that a ball of fluff breezed past my nose. Mr. Braithwaite stopped his spanking. I couldn’t see for myself, but by this time my bottom would have been a rosy-pink colour.

I felt a movement in his body. He gripped hold of the slipper and brought it crashing down across the very centre of my left cheek, then the right. A dozen slaps fell rapidly, like machinegun fire. Bang. Bang. Bang.

That hurt all right. My legs kicked out behind me and my body twisted and turned across Mr. Braithwaite’s lap. More spanks rained down. The pain intensified. I had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment many times before. Mr. Braithwaite was that kind of man. It was that kind of school. But, always I had been able to control my body movements. But, not this time.

In the past I had always had something to hold on to. My shins, a chair, a desk. But, while draped over the lap of Mr. Braithwaite I just dangled: in midair. I tried to wriggle my arms to clutch hold of the chair leg, but it was out of my grasp. I swivelled my body a little and reached back behind me, intent on preventing further blows. Mr. Braithwaite was wise to this. He gripped my wrist tightly and pushed my arm up my back as far as my shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere; Mr. Braithwaite made certain of that.

I carried on kicking and squirming as wave after wave of slipper spanks toasted my backside. Sweat soaked my white PE vest. My breath came in short bursts. My heartrate must have been off the scale.

I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit into my tongue. On and on he went. My buttocks throbbed. I could feel bumps forming on my bum where the slipper repeatedly connected. I writhed and wriggled, like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Then, he stopped. I shot off his lap and pulled my shorts up. I was breathless, but Mr. Braithwaite also seemed unable to draw air into his lungs. I hopped from foot to foot, desperate to rub away at my raw buttocks; but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had really hurt me.

“Go,” he croaked. “Send in the next boy.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I flung open the door and rushed out. “You’re next,” I nodded at Collins, the next boy in the alphabet. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. I went to the changing rooms and inspected the damage. My bum was dark pink all over and there were small patches of purple in the very centre of the cheeks. On the outer edges were several imprints of the size-eleven slipper.

I got dressed and walked the mile or so to my home. I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs. I needed to walk off the pain. The throbbing had gone by the time I reached my house, but there were tender spots that reignited when I put pressure on them. The backs of my thighs were raw and it was pretty difficult to sit at the tea table in comfort.

Why am I telling you all this after more than thirty-five years? This morning as I travelled on the Tube from my home in Leytonstone to my work at Liverpool Street, I noticed a newspaper that had been discarded by a passenger. It was open and I saw the headline, “Sex pervert schoolmaster jailed.” One George Albert Higginbottom had been sent to prison for six years after being found guilty of “the inappropriate use of corporal punishment”. The newspaper said he had assaulted dozens of pupils that police knew of over a twenty-year period.

I read the story slowly, taking in every detail. Then, the train thundered into the station. I threw the newspaper to the ground and pushed my way through the crowds to the exit. Well, I thought to myself, I was glad I hadn’t been to that school.

 

 

Other stories you might like

Peeping Tom

The hotel room

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Oh my papa

z used cane shorts chair (72)

Ian stretched his arms and legs and turned on his side to get a look at the bedside clock. Just gone eleven. He rolled onto his back and pulled the sheet up under his chin. He would leave it a little longer. The pubs didn’t open until twelve.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure blocked the frame. Mr. Hector was six-feet-four in his stockinged feet, broad at the shoulders and thick at the waist.

“C’mon, Ian. Get up. It’s time for your maintenance spanking.”

Ian pouted and pulled the bedsheet over his head. “Oh Papa, I don’t want to.”

Mr. Hector folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The naughty little boy was going to be difficult. Well, we shall see about that, he thought.

“C’mon son, you know how much I enjoy Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, Papa,” the nineteen-year-old sulked.

“Well, have it your own way,” Mr. Hector strode to the bed, took a handful of sheeting and wrenched it clean away from the teenager’s body. He licked his lips (an involuntary movement) at the sight of the gym-honed figure on the bed, wearing just blue-and-white-striped boxer briefs.

“Up you get young man,” Mr. Hector gripped Ian’s right wrist and pulled him to his feet. The boy was six inches shorter than Papa and several pounds lighter. He gave no resistance as Mr. Hector guided him from the room and down the stairs of the modern semi-detached house. The door to the sitting room was open. Mr. Hector had already made his preparations. A straight-backed, armless chair had pride of place in the centre of the room.

Mr. Hector guided Ian to the chair, then momentarily released his wrist while he sat in it, spread his legs a little and wriggled his bum until he was comfortable. Ian watched silently, noticing how Papa’s legs were thick and well-padded.

“Over you go,” Mr. Hector took Ian’s wrist and pulled him forward so that the teenager fell face downwards across his knees. Ian put his arms forward to break his fall and settled with the palms of his hands flat against the expensive Axminister carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air, his toes hovering an inch or so above the ground.

“These serve no useful purpose at a time like this,” Mr. Hector grinned as he took hold of the waist of the underwear and tugged them down the boy’s buttocks until they bunched up at his knees. Mr. Hector’s tongue ran around his lips.

Ian’s bum was well buffed. He shaved it himself every day. It was always completely hairless. His boyfriend Neville did Ian’s ball-sack once a week; on a Saturday, so Papa always got to see him at his very best.

Mr. Hector caressed the buttocks; first the right cheek, then the left. The teenager’s body seemed completely bald. It wasn’t; soft downy hair covered his legs. It was so fair in colour it was almost impossible to see. Papa rubbed the palm of his hand gently down the teenager’s legs, enjoying the slight tickling feel.

Then, with his left hand he caressed Ian’s naked back. He felt the blood surge into his own crotch. It was time to get started.

“You have the most beautiful bum,” he gasped. “Quite the best I’ve ever spanked.”

Ian’s face cracked into a smile, “I bet you say that to all the boys. Ouch!” Papa had landed a stinging smack across the centre of his right cheek. “That hurt.”

Papa watched a dark pink mark form on the boy’s bottom. “That’s the point, young man. That’s the point.”

He raised his right hand a foot or so away from the surface of the left buttock and brought it down with a mild slap. Then, he did the same to the right cheek. Then, he did it all over again. Slowly, every square inch of Ian’s buttocks turned a dark pink. Then, he started on the back of his thighs.

“Ow, ouch, oooh,” Ian wriggled his bum as smack after smack connected with his tight arse. It didn’t hurt so much, but he wanted to please Papa.

Mr. Hector increased the pace and the strength of the spanks. “Nearly finished,” he panted, “You know what to do.”

He smacked his hand across Ian’s bum. “One, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” He smacked again. “Two, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

After a hundred spanks, Mr. Hector’s palm hurt more than Ian’s backside. His cock was pretty sore too. It was time to finish.

“Okay, up you get.” He leaned back to give the teenager space to lift himself to his feet. Ian stood in front of his punisher and hopped from foot to foot while rubbing his not very sore backside. His hairless cock and balls bounced in front of Papa’s face.

Mr. Hector sucked on his bottom lip. “You’d better go back to your room now.”

Ian bent down to pull up his underwear, making sure the old man got a good view of his glory hole.

“Thank you, Papa,” he grinned and headed for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later he was in the bar of the Three Fishers Hotel with his boyfriend Neville, slurping on a bottle of Mexican lager.

Neville snuggled up close. “Did you have to toss off Papa?”

Ian playfully poked his tongue out. “No, not this time. He had one hell of a boner, I could feel it.” He gulped his beer and looked Neville in the eye, “I guess he’s probably wanking himself, right now.”

Neville convulsed with giggles.

“Hi guys,” Toby, the barman, sauntered over.

All three nodded their welcomes.

“Did your Papa deal with you yet?” Ian glanced across the bar at the hotel manager.

“No, not yet. He’ll do it this afternoon, once the bar’s closed.”

Ian grinned. Toby was about his own age, but thin as a rake. His pale-grey trousers clung to his hips and when he stood up it looked like he had no buttocks at all. But, when he bent forward, he had the cutest little bum imaginable. All the customers would gape when Toby reached down to a bottom shelf to fetch a packet of crisps.

Neville knew that later, when the customers had all gone away for their Sunday lunches, Toby would drape himself across one of the high bar stools and clutch onto the wooden legs. He could visualise it now. Toby’s Papa, a short stocky man with a beer gut befitting someone who had worked in bars all his life, would flex and swish an authentic whippy school cane. There would be much tap-tap-taping and then whoosh, Papa would smack the cane across Toby’s stretched bum. Ouch! Yarroo!

Neville’s daydreams were interrupted by Jonathon, a pal who had just arrived. “Hi, Neville,” he waved a greeting, his dark curly hair flopping into his eyes. He came across and uninvited sat next to Ian.

“Hey, Neville,” he leaned across the table, “Do you have a Papa?”

Neville crinkled his nose, “Don’t need one,” he grinned at Ian and took hold of his hand, “Not with lover boy here. Why?”

“Hugh, asked me if I could find him someone.”

“Hugh?”

“Yeah, you know him. Big fat guy. Welsh.”

Neville nodded vigorously. Yes, he knew him. He had been across his knee. Once. Never again. He could still taste the stench of stale beer and body odour.

Ian interjected. “What about little Davy, wasn’t he looking for a Papa?” Little Davy was probably pushing twenty, but he was only five-feet-three and with his tiny body and fresh face, he could pass for fourteen. People said he still travelled half-fare on the buses.

Jonathon frowned. “No, he’s found someone. A schoolmaster.”

“Schoolmaster?” Neville didn’t know of any schoolmaster Papa.

“Well, retired schoolmaster, I think. Lives in those posh houses on The Avenue.”

The boys nodded sagely. They had heard all sorts of stories about the goings-on in The Avenue.

Jonathon sipped a pint of bitter. “He makes him wear short trousers all the time. A green jumper too. I think he’s got a blazer too. A proper one, like they wear at St. Francis.”

“Oh God, no!” Neville guffawed. He had hated wearing that uniform when he was a pupil at St. FIGS. St. Francis Independent Grammar School, with the emphasis on Independent. It was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports and traditional discipline. That meant a swishy rattan cane.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. “The schoolmaster, what’s his name? Did he teach at St. FIGS?”

Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, “Dunno. Could be. They all liked to whack boys’ bums,” he spluttered on his beer as he failed to stifle a laugh.

“Davy’s coming over later, you can ask him.” Jonathon said, composing himself.

Neville giggled, “I hope he wears his short trousers and jumper; all the old queens here will blow a fuse.”

Just then the pub manager ambled over. “Good day lads,” he breezed. “Anyone up for an adventure?”

The three youngsters paused their conversation.

“That gentlemen at the bar,” he nodded over his shoulder at a dapper man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Neville grinned, “Not your average customer in here. Must be slumming. What’s he want?”

“To go upstairs,” the manager’s eyes shone, “With company,” he gave what he fondly believed to be a discreet cough.

“Nah, not today,” Neville sucked on his beer bottle.

The pub manager was undeterred. He leaned in so close to Neville he could smell the boy’s cologne and whispered in his ear.

“How much? He’ll pay that much,” Neville reeled. The man must be a millionaire. Or very desperate. “Does he want afters?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the pub manager straightened himself, confident he had made a sale. Money always talked in places like the Three Fishers. “But, you could always negotiate.”

Neville glanced across the table at Ian, his boyfriend. The merest blink conveyed his consent.

“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes,” Neville said as he settled back to finish his beer. It never did to appear too keen.

@

 

The room was dingy, no concession had been made for comfort. People rarely actually slept in a bedroom at the Three Fishers. Neville sniffed the dust in the air, there was only one small skylight window in the roof and there was no way to reach to open it. Already sweat was starting to run down his back.

The man had not introduced himself. He was about forty, Neville reckoned. Up close he oozed wealth. His suit was hand-tailored of the finest cloth that the young man had ever seen. His shoes shone almost as much as the man’s complexion. That skin was the product of more than a healthy diet. Neville had knocked on the door respectfully. He had not been briefed on his role in this little play acting. Was he to be the naughty pupil sent to the headmaster for a traditional six-of-the-best? Perhaps, it was Uncle & Nephew and he was to feel the full force of a slipper across his bum. Or maybe it was Magistrate & Poacher and he would bear the brunt of a birch rod across naked haunches.

The man’s instruction to “Enter” was so softly spoken Neville almost had not heard it. He gingerly opened the door to see the man seated in a rickety straight-backed wooden chair. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting. Neville shuffled into the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back unsure what was expected of him.

The man rose from the chair and took two or three steps across the room to the wrought-iron bed. On it, he had left a long narrow carpet bag. Without acknowledging Neville’s presence further, he unclasped the bag and reached inside. Neville watched intently. What instrument of punishment would the stranger withdraw from it? The shape of the bag probably had given the answer to that already.

Instead of withdrawing a long thin whippy cane, the man produced a tiny pair of leather shorts. “Please put these on,” he murmured softly. Neville took them in his hands. At once he felt their weight. If the stranger’s intention was to whip him in these he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Neville unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on the bed and then tugged them over his shoes. His yellow briefs fitted a little too snugly and one of his balls was exposed to the gaze of the stranger. He didn’t seem to notice. He was once more inside the carpet bag and this time he did withdraw a long, sturdy dragon cane. He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands while he waited for Neville to get ready.

The shorts were precisely that: short. They hardly covered the teenager’s briefs. He was relived he had not worn boxers, they would have probably poked out under the hem of the shorts. Neville wriggled into them. They fitted so well they might have been made especially for him. The man swished his cane through the air and Neville watched it fly. He was no stranger to the cane and from what he saw this was a breath-taking specimen. It was a little under four-feet in length, and about as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour and both dense and extremely whippy. This kind of rod could take any boy’s arse off.

The man’s tongue darted in and out of his not quite closed mouth, making him look a little like a lizard. He seemed about ready. “Please bend over the back of the chair,” he lightly tapped the cane against the wooden seat as if there might be some doubt what he meant.

Neville blinked. Was this all the stranger wanted? Wasn’t there to be some ritual dropping of the shorts to be followed by a baring of the bottom? The cane tapped again. “Please do as you are asked?” the man’s tone was reasonableness itself.

Neville took a deep breath; the room was hot and airless and he wished he could open the window. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leant forward. He was taller than average and the chair was quite low. He had been across this particular chair before, so unbidden he stretched himself right over and gripped the bottom of the legs. Ordinarily, a boy would place his hands on the seat and stick his bottom out in readiness for the swipe of the cane. Neville knew how to serve up his bum as a special treat. He stretched down and grasped the bottom of the legs. His muscular legs were straight and his buttocks were beautifully presented over the top of the chair’s back.

He closed his eyes and waited patiently. He heard, but could not see, the stranger pace across the bare floorboards. His fancy shoes creaked against the worn wood. Eventually, the stranger settled. He took up a position to Neville’s left and with his own legs slightly bent he took his aim. Whack!!! The sound of rattan against leather echoed round the small room as the man let fly with every ounce of strength that he possessed. A clear white mark where the cane connected immediately spread across the taut leather. Beneath the shorts, Neville felt nothing.

Within seconds another swipe struck with tremendous force a little lower this time. The sound reverberated across the room. and the leather cracked. The noise could be heard across the landing where two labourers were playing horses. Again, Neville felt nothing.

The stranger whipped the cane into Neville’s leather-covered arse over and over and over again. The boy felt the stick connect at force across his stretched buttocks. He knew from painful experience that if he were getting such strokes on his cloth trousers – or God forbid – on his underpants or the bare he would be hollering the house down by now. Blood would be running from the wounds.

Only then did Neville think of the money he was being paid. Now, he realised why it was so generous. Once the stranger had satisfied himself whipping into the leather shorts, he would want a repeat performance with them down at Neville’s ankles.

A beaten boy always thinks the ordeal went on longer than it did. But, this time it really did last for ten minutes. The stranger dripped perspiration. His silky skin was drenched. Large damp patches soaked his armpits. Even his own buttocks were damp. It was as if he has stepped in from a thunder storm.

His heart raced and his temples throbbed. Breath was hard to catch. He stopped. “Stand up boy,” he croaked. A terrified Neville hauled himself to his feet. Still the caning had not registered against his fleshy bum. He quite literally had not felt a thing. Now, he knew the ordeal was really about to start. His hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for the instruction, “Drop ’em.”

The man threw the cane on the bed, reached down to the flies of his own trousers and in a frenzy yanked them down to his knees. Already Neville could see the huge bulge pressing against the man’s underwear. Within seconds his penis was released. Neville gasped. He had never seen one so long, thick and stiff. Had the man stolen it from a stallion?

The stranger’s eyes glazed, tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Plaintively, he implored Neville, “Please take me.”

The teenager couldn’t believe his luck. With his own cock fighting against the front of the tight leather shorts, he dived forward mouth open, hoping that he could get it wide enough to gorge the stranger’s manhood.

 

Other stories you might like

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

Their new house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late up in the morning

late up in the morning

When Grandpa said if I continued to lay in bed in the morning and be late for work, he would come up to my room and toast my buns with a slipper, I didn’t believe him. Well, would you?

The thing is I have this problem and I know I’m not alone. I always wake up with a massive hard on in my pants. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming about but I know the only way I can get rid of the thing is to give my cock a good tug. That’s not something you want to hurry, so I’m always downstairs late for grandma’s breakfast.

Yesterday, I’d just come in a handful of tissues when the door bursts open and there’s grandpa. True to his word he’s got one of those old-fashioned plimsoll / gym shoes stuck in his fist. Man, is he angry. “Your gran’s had breakfast on the table for hours,” he shouts all the while waving the plimsol about.

Just because he’s my grandpa don’t go thinking he’s a wizened old man. I’m twenty myself and grandpa had my dad when he was about my age, so what does that make grandpa; forty-something? He works out every week and runs most days. He would put people half his age to shame.

So he comes into my room growling, “I told you.  I warned you,” and grabs hold of the duvet and rips it off the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but he tugs a fistful of my hair and somehow – I don’t know how – he has me face down on the mattress and I’m biting on the pillow. I’m “effing and blinding” but he doesn’t stop. Actually, thinking about it later I think my swearing just encourages him in his efforts.

He kneels on my back, knocking the stuffing out of me. I wriggle like a fish but I can’t get free. He weighs a ton. Then, Jesus H. you’ll never believe this, he grips the waistband of my pants and he pulls them down and leaves them at my knees. I am bare-arsed to the wind. I don’t have time to be frightened because just as I realise what his game is, he hammers the slipper into my bum. I turn my head to swear some more, so with his strong left arm he make me suck on the pillow.

With that and his knee in my back I am pinned down. I am going nowhere. I’m totally at his mercy; and he isn’t about to show any of that. I guess my arse is quite small and the plimsol is quite big so it only takes a few whacks before every inch of my bum is glowering red-hot. I can’t see it (not yet anyway) but my cheeks are quickly turning a deep pink and then a scorching red. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked with a slipper, but believe me when I say this; it smarts.

“This’ll teach you,” grandpa says and starts to whack me on the back of the thighs. Oh, my god! If my bum was smarting, this was agony. I’ve stopped swearing and now I’m yelling. Blue murder. If the neighbours are at home they’ll be phoning the police by now to report a murder taking place next door.

On and on he whacks me. It feels like hours, but I suppose it’s only a couple of minutes. Then he stops, and gets off my back. I cough my guts up trying to breathe properly. I’m gasping in air like a goldfish out of water. Grandpa growls at me from the open bedroom door. “Downstairs. Breakfast. Now!”

I check out my arse in the mirror. I’ve always liked my bum, it’s nice and round. There’s a bit of meat there, but no fat. Solid. It’s dark red, the colour of a good claret wine. I can see the outline of the slipper embossed all over my buttocks.

So, that was yesterday. The pain went away quite quickly and by bedtime even the marks had gone. I spent a lot of the night playing it all over again in my head. Me, completely helpless. Grandpa spanking the living daylights out of me. The pain. The humiliation.

I’ve got a stiffy now just thinking about it. I’m late for work again. Is that grandpa I hear coming up the stairs? I sure hope so.

 

Picture credit: Craig Esposito

 

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Don’t bully our mum

What a jolly jape

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Father does his duty

z used adult schoolboy in corner (1)

I am doing as my father instructed, standing with my nose pressed against the wall, hands on head; waiting. Waiting until father is ready to deal with me. I am wearing my school uniform. Or most of it. When I get home each evening he makes me change out of my long grey trousers and put on shorts. They’re not leisure shorts, the kind we wear during warm weather; they are real properly-tailored short trousers. I’m eighteen years old, God only knows where he manged to buy a pair that fitted me.

It’s father’s idea of keeping me under control. He says I spend too much time mucking around with my mates. He seems to think I hang out at bus stops drinking cheap cider and smoking dope when I should be at home hitting the school books. It’s not true, he doesn’t know the half of it.

He reckons if he confiscates all my jeans and whatnot and puts me in short trousers I won’t want to go out at night dressed like an overgrown eight-year-old. He’s right there.

Instead of going out I spend hours online playing games and looking at porn. Father thought his little wheeze would make me study harder. Well, today he’s found out the truth. We’ve just had the results of our project work for A-levels. It looks like I’m heading for a big fat fail in the exams.

I can hear him bustling around in the sitting room. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to but when he said he would “deal with me,” I was pretty sure. It’s not looking good.

I hear him call. “Come here, Selwyn!” I know better than to keep him waiting. I go across the hall to the sitting room. I can see the preparations he has made. The dining room table is pushed against one wall. This gives more space in the small room. He has set one of the dining room chairs opposite with its back pressed up against the wall. He is standing, feet apart, like a soldier at ease.

Father is probably in his forties, but he looks much older. He is medium height and lean with a short-back-and-sides haircut that went out of fashion in about 1952. It is slicked back with the greasy hair oil Brylcreem. He has a short, well-groomed moustache, but it’s not as dark as his hair. It hides the top lip of his pasty-white face. He is wearing the same beige cardigan that he always wears when not in his work suit. The buttons are done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. His trousers are old and dark – part of a suit relegated from workday use to become his antiquated version of “leisure wear.” Grey socks and bedroom slippers complete his outfit.

One of the slippers remains on his left foot; the other he grips in his right hand. He gestures with it that I should stand close to him. I shuffle forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your trousers, please,” he says. There is no emotion. I can detect no anger in his voice. Perhaps there is a trace of world-weariness. Once more he is compelled to spank his son’s bottom. When will Selwyn ever learn?

I do not plead for clemency, for experience tells me that nothing I can say will deter my father from his mission. I know he loves me and he wants the best for me. It is his duty to discipline me. Only by doing so can I hope to grow into a responsible adult. I have heard him tell me this all my life. There is nothing unique about today.

My hands tremble more than I think they should as I grasp the metal fastener. The short trousers have an elasticated waist, so I need no belt.  Once the front is open they tumble down my thighs and rest at my shins. I am wearing dark-blue underpants. I am a growing boy and they are getting a little too small for me. They fit tightly across my cock and balls and snugly so that at the back they lift and separate my buttock cheeks.

Father adjusts himself on his chair. He moves his bottom a bit, making sure his spine is firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separates his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest will soon rest.

“Bend over my knee, please.” Again, his instruction is softly spoken. There is no need for anger. He knows I will obey his instruction without question.

I am across him in one movement. I stretch my hands in front of me and keep my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor. I wait patiently. I have a close-up view of the dark- and-light-blue patterned carpet. I feel father grip the lower half of my school blazer and push it up my back. Then he takes the tail of my shirt and pulls that away from my buttocks.  He smooths my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I suck in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Father’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my bottom time and time again. My bum is really very sore now. One whack hits me squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Father isn’t a sadist, when he gives spankings he intends for me to get the message and mend my ways, but he doesn’t want to brutalise me

I gasp a little as some wallops hit right on a spot where others have landed. He quickens the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stops after about two minutes. My bum hurts and I am sore, but I am not about to burst into sobs or anything.

Father has finished spanking, but he continues to hold me down over his knees. He still has things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes father.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“I should study harder.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No father.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes father.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggle to my feet, pull up my short trousers and do them up.

“Go stand by the wall again. Hands on head. Think about how naughty you have been and what you must do to mend your ways,” he says.

I return to the wall. Minutes later the telephone rings. I hear my mother answer it. I hear her side of the conversation. She is being given news that shocks her. Oh dear. I bet it’s Mr. Grainger from Number 42 telling her he saw me and Christopher Elliot tossing each other off on the recreation ground at lunchtime.

 

Other stories you might like

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

When Dad got home

Donald knows his place

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A family business

z used office posh by Leyendecker (1)

Richard Bullivant loved his job; most of the time. This was not one of them. Mr. Greaves, the company’s owner, peered at him over the top of his spectacles. The boss was seated and in his hands he clutched a hand-written report. Bullivant stood to his front, meekly, hands behind his back, holding on to his hat.

“This will not do, boy,” Mr. Greaves sucked air through his teeth. Bullivant shuffled from foot to foot. “No, boy, certainly not.”

Bullivant resented being called ‘Boy.” He was thirty-five years old and deputy head of the accounts department. He deserved more respect than this.

Mr. Greaves waved the report provocatively in Bullivant’s face. The boss’s thinning grey hair swirled around his mostly-bald dome. Bullivant grimaced as specks of spittle flew towards him. Mr. Greaves was certainly angry.

He had good cause to be, Bullivant would be first to admit. There had been an error. Figures miscalculated, a profit reported as a loss. It could do the company damage. But, it hadn’t. It was spotted in time and corrected. But, not until word had reached the ears of Mr. Greaves. A junior man in the accounts department had made a mistake, but Bullivant would have to carry the can.

Greaves’s was a family firm. Mr. Greaves always said so. He had inherited most of it from his father and he had built on it. Now, in his seventies he expected his own son to soon take the reins. Mr. Greaves believed everyone who worked for him was one of the family. They were all his children. He was the Pater familias. He was responsible for them all; just like he was their father.

Bullivant knew all about Mr. Greaves’s attitude to his workers, that was why he couldn’t stop his heart thumping through his chest. His palms were sticky and his mouth dry as a desert. “We can’t have this, boy. You know we can’t have this,” Mr. Greaves seemed to be talking to himself. Bullivant stood waiting for his boss to get to the point, but the old man appeared to have dried up.

The silence startled him. Then his boss spluttered, “Well boy, well boy, what do you say for yourself?” Bullivant blanched. The moment he had dreaded since the mistake had come to light. It wasn’t Bullivant’s fault. Truly, it wasn’t, but that was not what Mr. Greaves expected to hear. The mistake was made by one of his underlings; Bullivant must take responsibility.

“Could have cost us dear,” Mr. Greaves coughed. “Very dear indeed, eh boy?”

But it hadn’t. Bullivant had spotted the mistake in time. He had been doing his job. A job he loved, and if he said so himself, a job he did very well indeed. It was no good telling Mr. Greaves that. He was old school and “school” was the appropriate metaphor here. He expected a man to take responsibility for those he managed. The buck, as their American cousins might say, stopped here.

Bullivant sucked in air and began the little speech he had prepared. It lasted less than a minute and ended with the words, “I take full responsibility, Sir.”

Mr. Greaves glowered. A smile split his face. “Indeed you should, boy. Indeed you should.”

Bullivant relaxed a little. Perhaps, this interview wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He forced a smile himself. It looked more like a scowl from where his boss was seated.  Mr. Greaves eyes narrowed. “All right Bullivant. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Oh no, Sir,” Bullivant had brightened already. He tried the smile again, without evident success. He wouldn’t be able to smile properly until he was safely dismissed from the office and back on the second floor with his minions. He waited for Mr. Greaves to let him go.

“Bullivant, we can’t leave it at this,” Mr. Greaves shifted his buttocks and started to rise from his armchair, “You do appreciate that, don’t you?”

Oh no! The thought flashed through Bullivant’s mind. This was not over yet. Unsure if the question had been rhetorical, he merely nodded sagely.

“Speak up, boy,” Mr. Greaves’s famed irritability showed.

Now, red in the face, Bullivant, mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” and hoped that would suffice as an answer.

“Good boy,” Mr. Greaves was now on his feet and walking across his capacious office. It had shelves and cupboards along two of its walls. Another had a large window and the fourth an unlit fire. A huge desk dominated the room. Towards one corner were four comfortable armchairs, encircling a glass-topped table. Mr. Greaves stopped when he reached a set of cupboards. One was narrow and tall. He delved into his pocket and found a key which he used to open its door. Bullivant had never noticed the cupboard before, but now instinctively he knew what it contained.

He wrung his hat in his hands and watched intently as his boss reached inside. There was a slight rattling sound before Mr. Greaves’s hand emerged clutching a long, thin, yellow-coloured cane. It had the traditional crooked handle. Bullivant had seen many of these before. Every schoolboy in the land knew what a rattan cane looked like and many of them could attest to the intense pain one could inflict.

Mr. Greaves turned and faced his employee. He held the cane in his hands and looked down at it as though he had never seen such a thing before. It was a little over three feet long and had notches every three or four inches along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and formed a perfect arc when Mr. Greaves tested its flexibility. He swished it through the air. Swoosh! It made a terrific noise as it went.

He pointed the cane at Bullivant. “Hang your hat and jacket over there,” he nodded at the coat-stand in the far corner of the office. Bullivant’s mouth opened and silently closed. Should he make a protest? What would be the point? Mr. Greaves was in control. Bullivant loved his job, he was very good at it and he was well paid for his efforts. The drama presently unfolding was surely a small price to pay. He convinced himself this was so, but his hands did not seem to agree since they shook almost uncontrollably as he placed his hat on the stand and set about trying to get his coat off his back. It took some considerable time. Mr. Greaves peered over his eye glasses and entertained himself by swiping the cane through the air.

At last Bullivant was ready. “Stand by the desk, boy,” Mr. Greaves pointed the cane, in case there was any doubt what he meant,

In a trance Bullivant made the short journey across the office. In his head it was twenty years previously and he was in the housemaster’s study at St. Tom’s. That was the only way he would be able to deal with the absurdity of the situation he now faced.

“Stand up straight,” Mr. Greaves barked.  Bullivant had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his master. Mr. Greaves stared at Bullivant. He was a little taller than himself and powerfully built. Perhaps, Mr. Greaves wondered, he partook in sports: boxing maybe. Bullivant’s white shirt looked starched and his detachable collar was held in place by a gold stud. His trousers were held aloft by red braces. He wore them a little tightly and they pulled the fabric of his trousers into his buttocks so each cheek was clearly separated from the other. They were round and plump.

Mr. Greaves stood close to his minion. He sucked on his bottom lip as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the man he was about to thrash. “No, no, this will never do,” he mused absent-mindedly. “Won’t do at all.” He tapped his cane across Bullivant’s buttocks. “They’re too thick. Take them down.”

Bullivant’s flushed face blanched. “Wor…?” he started to protest, but thankfully stopped himself in time. It never did to protest. A chap never did that. He was an Englishman of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take his punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.

He pulled the braces from his shoulders and let them dangle at his sides. His trousers were now loose and once he unfastened the button at the waist the weight of the keys in his pocket sent them hurtling to form a puddle on top of his shoes. Mr. Greaves’s eyes widened. Bullivant wore the new-fangled undershorts. The covered his buttocks and hung an inch or two down his legs. Mr. Greaves touched the desktop with his cane. “Bend over, boy.” It was a sharp command and one he expected to be obeyed without question. It was.

Bullivant had last been caned at school by his housemaster. It was the final week before he had left for good. It was unheard of for eighteen year olds to be thrashed, but he and a pal had made some tomfool pact together to climb the clocktower and deposit a pair of matron’s bloomers on the weathervane. They had done it too – in the dead of night. But what was the point of doing something so splendid if nobody knew who the culprit was? It was worth owning up. They were heroes and talked about with admiration by boys for years to follow. What bare-arsed beating could top that?

The memory of that caning was suddenly fresh in Bullivant’s mind. He stretched across Mr. Greaves’s desk just as he had done in the headmaster’s study nearly two decades previously. He held on to the far edge and rested his right cheek against the cool wood. He had a close-up view of the grain in the walnut. His legs were parted by about eighteen inches and his stomach rested at an angle so that his buttocks were correctly raised to receive the whipping from the cane. It was a bit like riding a bike. Once you had learned the right way to present your backside for a thrashing, you never forgot.

Mr. Greaves took a moment to admire the scene. He had caned many of his employees’ bottoms over forty or so years. Mostly, he beat them across the stretched fabric of trousers. Sometimes recalcitrant junior staff were required to lower their bags and he whipped them on the seat of their woollen “combinations”. Never before had been presented with a set of buttocks encased in snug shorts. Bullivant made a terrific target.

Mr. Greaves’s heart raced as he took up his position to Bullivant’s left. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest part of his target, raised it to above shoulder height and swiped it down. He was greeted by a resounding “twack!” as the supple rattan sank into the soft flesh. Bullivant shut his eyes tight. It hurt. A lot. Memories of past canings flooded his mind. Yes, it stung tremendously, but he could take it.

Mr. Greaves landed the second low down, where the buttocks meet the thighs. That had Bullivant gasping. The thirty-five-year-old wriggled his bottom, this way and that. He couldn’t help it. He felt a little ashamed. Had he ever reacted like that at school? He steadied himself. Closed his eyes, shut his teeth and waited for the next.

Wow! It was some stinger. It landed across the top of the globes. A hot stripe seared into his bum. Now he had three parallel cuts across his cheeks. Bullivant had to admit it, his boss was an expert with the cane.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

The voice sounded as if it were hundreds of miles away. There was no reasonable answer a boy undergoing punishment could give to such a question, so Bullivant stayed quiet. Mr. Greaves took silence for impertinence and sliced number four so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet. Despite his determination to take his beating “like an Englishman” Bullivant yelped at that one. He could not see the smile curl around Mr. Greaves’s lips.

The boss adjusted his stance. He was nearing the finishing line. He lay the cane so that it lay from the bottom left to the top right of his target and let fly. The stroke cut across all four that had previous landed, reigniting the pain of them all. Bullivant’s bum throbbed. He held on to the desk for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the wood. He felt Mr. Greaves move behind him.

God no! He knew what the sadist planned. The cane tapped across the buttocks from bottom right to top left. Whack!

“Ohmygod” Bullivant yelled out loud as a perfect “X” was scorched into his bum. Blood oozed from the intersections of the cuts. The agony was awesome. It was as if someone had poured a pail of boiling water over his flesh. His heartrate sped and his temples throbbed, almost as much as his rear end.

He heard a rattle as Mr. Greaves replaced the cane in his cabinet. Then the words, “You may stand.” Bullivant did not need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and without waiting for permission he pulled his trousers up. It gave him the cover to surreptitiously rub his thumbs across his savaged backside. It didn’t ease the pain.

Mr. Greaves sniffed the air as if a sudden bad odour had permeated the office. “You should take your hat and coat and leave.” He watched his minion pick up the clothes and without waiting to put them on, rush from the room.

Outside, Bullivant paused. The office was full of people busy at their desks. Had they heard his thrashing? His head was light. He rather hoped they had. He had never experienced such a sense of euphoria. He was on top of the world. He walked through the office to the lift. But, instead of taking it to the second floor to return to his office, he went to down to the ground floor. He had something to do first.

He put his hat on his head and joined the throngs of people in the city centre. He was walking on air in search of the right shop. He wanted to purchase a whippy school cane. Brian Clark, the accounts department junior, was in for a shock.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

Other stories you might like

His big brother is not amused

The housemates

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The African Mall

z used sjambok-105-cm_l

“You want to give me lashes?” the 23-year-old youth’s jaw quite literally dropped. His heart pounded, sweat soaked the back of his shirt.

The tall, security commander grunted, his lips forming a sneer. He shared a glance with a guard; a shorter, fatter version of himself.

Pierre’s eyes watered. The heat was oppressive. It was a tiny, airless room, hardly furnished. A rickety wooden table and a plastic chair. Nothing else. The room smelt of stale sweat, it made Pierre gag. Somewhere there was a faint odour of urine. The grimy green-coloured walls oppressed him.

“You’re not in the United States now,” the security commander barked. Pierre tensed. He hated it when people mistook his accent for American. He was from Ontario, for chrissake. That’s in Canada folks, he wanted to scream every time people did it. Don’t blame me for Donald Trump.

But he knew now would not be a good time for a lesson in geography.

“We have rules here,” the security commander’s eyes blazed. “We have ways of dealing with people like you.” He flexed a thick leather sjambok whip between his hands, his sneer morphing into a cruel smile. “Don’t think you’re getting away with it, just because you’re American.”

There he went again. American. For an absurd moment Pierre wondered if he could convince the man he was Canadian, he would let him off. Swipe! The whip swished through the air with speed and strength. No, it was clear the security commander wanted his pound of flesh.

“Stealing is a serious offence in Botswana.” The leather flew again.

It was a modern shopping mall, no different from the ones back home in Toronto; a little smaller perhaps. Pierre had pocketed a cake of soap. Nothing more. That’s all he wanted. He and his friends back in Canada stole whenever they could. Why pay when you don’t have to was their creed. Some people stole as their way of screwing the system, sticking it to the big corporations. Some people stole because they were poor, Pierre didn’t. He stole because he wanted something for nothing. Simple as that. Everyone he knew of his age felt the same.

“If you go to court you will be fined and get lashes on your bare buttocks,” the security commander tapped the whip menacingly against his right leg.”

“But I’m not a kid,” Pierre protested.

The security commander snorted, “Ha! Here, we lash the bare buttocks,” he rolled the words bare buttocks around his tongue enjoying the sound it made, “of men up to the age of 40.”

Pierre’s knees buckled. Suddenly, he remembered a story he had read in a local newspaper. Some taxi driver had been lashed with six strokes on the bare buttocks after he got into some ‘road rage’ thing. The guy was twenty-nine years old.

“The choice is yours,” the security commander drew in his breath. Mr Reasonableness. He only wished to serve. “I can lash you now or you can go to court, get a fine and get lashed.” He leaned into Pierre sprinkling him with spittle when he spoke. “And, it would be all over the newspapers. American lashed on bare buttocks.” There he went again, relishing the words

Pierre turned his head. The smell of stinky breath made him want to retch.  It wasn’t much of a choice. His eyes darted across the room. The two guards blocked the exit.

“Don’t even think of running,” the security commander read his mind. He raised the sjambok, poked it towards Pierre’s face and grinned, showing the only seven teeth he had in his mouth. Pierre flinched in revulsion.

The commander turned toward his companion, his head hardly moved. It was enough, the guard opened the door, stood in the corridor and called urgently in a language Pierre could not understand. Moments later a second squat burley guard was on the threshold. No words were spoken, everyone knew their role in this drama.

The room was small, it took the two guards only three steps to cross it. Pierre squealed. He flew through the air. One guard had his arms, the other his feet. The wooden legs shook violently as the youth’s body hit the gnarled table. Eventually, they stuttered to a halt. Pierre had no breath left. Face down on the table. Shoulders pinned at one end, legs held at the other. Trapped. He wriggled his hips and waist, he jerked his buttocks left and right; then up and down. No good. He was trapped. Held securely. Going nowhere until his captives said so.

The table top was hard beneath his body, his nose and mouth pressed into the rough wood. Pierre felt his heart thumping against the table, he could scarcely breathe. The strength of the guard at his shoulders was overwhelming. Pierre couldn’t move is head enough to see his captors. What were they doing? He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The security commander’s tongue darted from his mouth, licked his lips and popped back inside. He eyed the youth prostrate before him; took a deep swallow and let the tongue do the lizard thing once more.

Pierre was not tall, nor especially small. He was neither fat nor thin. His yellow-patterned tee shirt had risen up, revealing a hairless back. His baggy basketball shorts had ridden down, showing three inches or more of underwear.

The security commander inhaled deeply and slowly let the air escape; he sounded like a steam engine settling down. Silently, he reached forward and held the elasticated waist of Pierre’s shorts. The youth bucked his buttocks, writhing in a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable. It took three tugs to get both the shorts and the underwear to Pierre’s knees. A howl of protest bounced off the walls.

The youth’s temples throbbed, his eyes moistened. His vile persecutors could see into his crack. Pierre had not showered for days, that was why he stole the soap. Despite mounting humiliation, he still had the presence to wriggle his body, keeping his dick and balls under his body and away from view.

The security commander paused, preparing his strategy. Deciding the best way to deliver maximum pain. The American’s bare buttocks were tiny and slim, not much more than cherry pips.  The security commander had lashed many guys in the ten years he had been in the job. Local men were broad at the hips and had large meaty buttocks. The security commander was at a loss. How to proceed? Usually he would slash the sjambok down with maximum force and let the meat in the arse cheeks absorb much of the shock. This boy only had only two pimples for buttocks. The whip would tear him to shreds.

The security commander had no compassion for the youth. He despised rich Americans who came to Africa to steal from the people. He knew for certain this kid needed his arse whipped and probably much more besides. Nobody in his country would complain; schoolchildren; youths and men right up to middle age were beaten all the time. It was part of the culture. The men he arrests and spanks thank him for sparing them the court appearance, the fine the lashing and the resultant publicity in the papers. Everyone also agreed that it saved money, police and court time to administer summary lashings like his.

But, the youth was not local, he was American. The security commander almost spat at the thought. He’d probably have the U.S. Embassy on his case when the flogging was over.

Damn it. Who cared? He looked down at the youth clenching his tiny little bum, instinctively trying to make it an even smaller target, shaking as he waited. The security commander gripped the handle of the leather whip, raised it above his head, circled it a few times and brought it flogging down across the centre of both pimples. A banshee-like howl started from Pierre’s stomach, made its way through is upper body and then burst through his throat. Outside, in the mall, shoppers hurried by, heads down, knowing, but not wanting to, the source of the scream.

Pierre’s eyes saucered, blood sped to his face, his neck was as scarlet as his hind quarters. His body bucked. The two guards held him tightly. He was going nowhere.

Whip! The second slash landed. The youth’s mouth filled with vomit. He gulped it down, choking himself. Two welts ran in parallel across his cheeks. The security commander knew his job. Pierre’s whole body soaked with sweat. His buttocks trembled, raw, aflame.

He lashed a third stroke, the bruises on the victim’s bottom had deepened in colour, Pierre moaned a constant, low abject wail. The security commander tapped the leather whip against the corrugated bruises on the tortured buttocks. Pierre squirmed and clenched and unclenched his cheeks, but he found no comfort. What he craved to do was to rub his battered bum and make the agony go away.

The security commander paused, grinned widely and strolled leisurely across the room, swishing the sjambok as he went. A shiver of satisfaction ran through his body. He returned his attention to the bleeding, bare buttocks squirming on the table top; ready to give them more of what they deserved. After a few moments assessing where to place his next blow, he thrashed another cut deep into the flesh and delighted in the low groan of misery that escaped Pierre’s lips as his buttocks gyrated.

The fifth and final stroke cut deep. Pierre panted to draw in oxygen, vomit once more filled his throat. Weakened now, he couldn’t stop it spurting through his mouth onto the table, the stench of his own sick made him heave some more. He realised that he had been grinding his teeth and his jaw ached. He wailed heartily.

The security commander circled the table, carefully admiring his handiwork. Five high welts ran across the buttocks, almost in perfect parallel. Once had fallen low, just on the crease where the buttocks met the thighs. Pierre would feel the pain of that every time he sat for some considerable time to come.

Blood oozed from the wounds. The bum wasn’t ripped to shreds as the security commander had feared, but it was raw and throbbing. Pierre’s wailing subsided into convulsed sobs, he sounded like a new born calf separated from its mother.

The security commander, tucked the sjambok under his sweaty, stinking armpit and without a word, he strutted from the room, confident that the guards would know what to do with the prisoner.

Three hours later, his bum still tender to touch, Pierre stood in the immigration line, waiting to cross the border into South Africa.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

He was coming home himself late one night with his wife when he saw Brian lurching down the street. The Avenue is in an upscale part of town and he watched him weaving from pavement to pavement when he wasn’t actually walking in the middle of the road. Mr. Bell gaped open-mouthed as Brian swung across the street, hung on to the hedge of Mr. Bell’s front garden, leaned over and puked a gutload of vomit all over the roses. Then he slid onto his knees and lay on the pavement, semi-conscious.

If his wife hadn’t been with him, Mr. Bell would have kicked Brian’s face in there and then and left him to sleep it off. His wife was a kinder soul. She insisted they take him into the house and let him recover.

“Why not just take him to his own house?” Mr. Bell asked reasonably, since it was less than a hundred yards away.

“Oh, no,” his wife replied. “What would his mother say if she saw him in this state?” That left him open-mouthed for the second time in two minutes. Why was the brat their responsibility? He had been married for more than twenty years and knew when he couldn’t win an argument, so he helped Brian to his feet and with the help of his wife (oh, sweetness of his life) they got him inside.

There wasn’t much they could do with him so they took off his shoes and left him on the couch while Mrs. Bell fetched blankets.

The next morning they lay in bed wondering what they should do about Brian.

“If he were ours, you’d give him a damn good hiding,” Mrs. Bell remembered how her own sons had been successfully guided to adulthood. Plenty of parental love and very sore backsides when necessary, was her simple recipe for life.

“We still have those canes in the attic,” she said wistfully.

“No, Nora,” Mr. Bell had cottoned on to his wife’s thinking, “We can’t he’s not ours.”

Nora sniffed dismissively, “Fat lot of good his parents are. They’d let him get away with murder.”

“Even so, Nora,” Mr. Bell didn’t want this argument.

“Even so, nothing. He’s probably killed our roses.”

She pulled the duvet from her and stepped out of bed. “Give him a good thrashing. You know he deserves it,” she said as she hurried to the bathroom.

He did deserve it, Mr. Bell was certain of that. But it was too late for Brian. He was twenty years old. It was too late to start disciplining him now.

“It’s never too late,” his wife was full of scorn when he told her this. “You’d probably be doing him a favour. He needs to be taught a lesson.” She closed the door behind her as she left the bedroom.

Mr. Bell grimaced, As usual, his wife had the final say. Minutes later she returned. “Here, go do your duty.” She passed him a long, thin, whippy school cane. It felt light in his hands. He remembered that even something so seemingly innocuous as this cane could cause severe pain when used correctly.

“Get dressed,” his wife ordered. “You’ve got work to do.”

Five minutes later Mr. Bell padded down the stairs, hoping that Brian had woken already and gone home. He heard the youngster’s snores. “Drat!” he said to himself. He would have to go through with this. He knew Brain needed a dose of good old corporal punishment. Mr. Bell knew this for a fact. He had absolutely no doubts that caning worked. But, it was too late now. Even if he told Brian he had overstepped the mark for the final time, the boy would just walk away. Worse, he might give him a rude gesture and then walk away.

No, Mr. Bell knew these days no twenty-year-old was going to submissively bend over and allow him to whack a cane across his backside. And more was the pity, he thought. He left the cane resting against the hall table and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Brian woke with a start, his cock was stiff and his bladder ached. He needed the toilet and fast. He did a double-take as he returned down the stairs having dealt with both. He had never seen anything like this before; but instinctively he knew what it was. What a fine specimen; a school cane, with a curved handle.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years ago, but Brian still knew what one of these things looked like, even if he couldn’t tell you what it felt like to bend over touching toes to have one whacked across the seat of his trousers.

Gently, he held the rod between his two hands. It was dark yellow, about three feet long and perhaps as thick as a pencil. It surprised Brian how easily he could flex it. It was so springy. Fascinated, he held it to the light and counted the number of notches from one tip to another.

Then, he swished it up and down. “Bend over boy. Touch your toes,” he said aloud. Heck where did that come from?

He walked with it into the sitting room, still sweeping the cane through the air. Then, suddenly he brought the cane down with a fierce swish and whacked it across the back of the huge dark brown leather sofa. The thwack!!! echoed around the room.

Brian’s pulse raced as he scythed the rattan cane through the air imagining it crashing into the backsides of naughty schoolboys. “It’s six of the best for you Baker, bend over.”

He was anxious to know what the cane felt like. Awkwardly, he held the cane and inexpertly aimed it towards his own buttocks. He hit the target, but not with enough force to cause any pain. Sorely disappointed, but not actually sore, he swished the cane into his thigh.

Ouch!!!” yes that hurt. He dropped the cane as if it was a white-hot poker and hopped up and down, rubbing furiously at the red stripe that had already formed beneath his jeans.

“My, aren’t you having fun.” Brian who nearly had a seizure with the shock, whirled round to see Mr. Bell standing in the doorway, smiling.

Shit! How much had he seen? Brian blushed scarlet and blubbered some excuse. “I found it in the hallway.”

The silence was intense: neither wanted to be the first one to continue.

Brian cracked first, “Where did it come from?”

“It’s mine,” Mr. Bell said, picking up the swishy cane and flexing it between his hands.

“Yours?”

It was a short, simple question, but Mr. Bell heard so much more in it like, “When did you get it? Why? Who do you intend to you it on? Is it going to be me?”

“I’ve had it for years. I used it on my sons.” He broke off abruptly realising he had overstepped the mark. Perhaps, it wasn’t something people should know. Not in this day and age

“Really, you used to cane them?”

“It was quite common in the past to have canes in the house. Most people did.”

Brian watched a little fascinated as Mr. Bell continued to play with the cane.

“Fathers punished their children to teach them to behave and make them grow up properly.”

“How do you mean Mr. Bell?”

“So, they behaved responsibly. Not. Like kids today.” He didn’t know why he said that; he didn’t want to start an argument with the boy.

“What’s wrong with kids today?”

Mr. Bell looked at this drunkard boy. It took the old man back twenty years or more to the time he discovered his son Alan had been helping himself from the cocktail cabinet. Eighteen years old or not, justice was swift in the form of a thick leather belt applied with some force across the boy’s bared buttocks.

Oh, how he howled the house down that evening. Mr. Bell could still hear the wailing. But it was worth it, it was many years before Alan touched a drop of alcohol again. And, when he did he made certain he had paid for it himself.

Then Brian asked a question that almost knocked Mr. Bell on his back. “Mr. Bell, if I had been your son, how would you treat me differently than my dad does?”

It was a question, so reasonably stated, posed as if Brian genuinely wanted to know the answer.

Mr. Bell wasn’t prepared to let the boy’s father down by answering that question, so he asked one of his own, “Are you happy, Brian?”

Brian thought for a moment and then quietly replied, “No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

But, he did. Even if he couldn’t find the words, he was unhappy because he was aimless. He had no idea what he wanted in life and nobody cared enough to guide him. He could do anything he liked at home, he could stay out late smoking dope and nobody cared.  He had flunked his exams and all it led to was a row at home. Nobody would help him to sort out his life.

Mr. Bell  broke the silence. “It’s probably because you don’t know how you are supposed to behave; you don’t know the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Mr. Bell picked up the cane and pointed it at Brian, but not threateningly, “And that’s why this was so useful.”

He watched Brian’s eyes transfix on the cane. It came as a revelation to Brian. Mr. Bell knew. Mr. Bell knew exactly how he felt.

“If you behaved like you do now in your father’s time you would have a permanent groove on your stomach from constantly bending over the back of that chair,” he laughed at his own little joke and swished the cane in the direction of the dining room table.

And, if you came home late, after curfew, drunk as you were last night, you would not sit down for a fortnight after I had finished with you.”

A remorseful Brian blushed deep red. Why had he gotten drunk? Truly he didn’t know and equally as truly he regretted it. Sincerely. He didn’t just regret it because he had been found out.

“Mr. Bell, help me. Please.” It was said so quietly the old man could hardly hear the boy’s pleading.

“Please.”

Mr. Bell looked at the boy through sad eyes. Could Brian be helped, or was it already too late for him. Brian remained silent, but his own shiny grey eyes spoke volumes: would someone please offer him salvation. He had said, “Help me,” but Mr. Bell heard it as, “Beat me, let me atone, don’t leave me stewing in my own guilt.”

Mr. Bell flexed the cane in his hands. Should he beat the boy. He didn’t expect Brian would submit himself to a thrashing. The boy had been mollycoddled all his life; he was hardly likely to be man enough to take this well-deserved whipping. If he ordered the boy to bend over, Mr. Bell expected to hear the front door slam and see Brian running up the driveway to escape punishment.

“Look at me Brian. You have been a thorough disgrace; not just today, but for a very long time past. You are an utter shame; you are disobedient to our parents; you are lazy; and last night you came home drunk and puked up in my garden.”

Brian looked Mr. Bell square in the eye. He was not disputing a word of it. Mr. Bell was correct in every part; he was all the things he said.

Mr. Bell heard his wife bustling in the kitchen. Then she stopped. He knew she was listening. There would be hell to pay later, if he did not go through with his. He took a deep breath. “Stand behind that chair,” he pointed with his cane.

Brian stared hard at the old man. To Mr. Bell it seemed he was debating something with himself. Then, without a murmur, Brian obeyed.

Mr. Bell held the cane, tapping it against his leg as he waited for the boy to decide. He knew if this morning was to have any purpose at all, the beating had to be exemplary. This could not be a token slap on the bum.

But, for it to work, Brian had to submit himself to the old man for punishment. He had to admit that he deserved to be beaten and he was ready to accept the caning, delivered in any way his punisher felt fit; with no argument.

Mr. Bell didn’t know Brian well, but even as he saw the boy standing, apparently emotionless, behind the chair he doubted that he would submit.

Then came the moment of truth, “Bend over.”

There was a hesitation, but only a slight one, before, with his hands visibly trembling he glanced over at Mr. Bell. The old man thought he saw a spark of gratitude in the boy’s grey eyes, before Brian fell forward across the back of the chair.

Brian wore dirty denim jeans, a shirt and jumper. Mr. Bell pulled the jumper clear of the target area and gripped the waistband of the jeans pulling them taut. In truth, Mr. Bell would have preferred to thrash Brian’s naked buttocks. A beating on the bare only increased the severity slightly, but it impressed upon the boy that he was totally submissive to his master.

Despite the wish, Mr. Bell knew that a bare-bottomed beating might prove too much for the boy, no matter how long he had been in need of this.

“Bottom higher, please.”

Brian reached further forward. Mr. Bell noticed him dig his finger nails hard into the chair’s seat and brace himself for what was to come.

Mr. Bell sliced the cane across Brian’s buttocks. It stung like hell. It made him open his fists and cover his face with both hands. A second stroke forced the hands to hold onto his head and stifle the cry which was bursting to emerge. He arched his back, shook his buttocks from side to side and felt every muscle in his body reaching bursting point, but Brian remained bent over, fighting the shafts of pain which were chewing up his buttocks, and struggling to control his laboured breathing

Twelve strokes had succeeded in creating a volume of pain across his backside, bringing tears to his eyes, he lost control and his legs shook in anger in response to the cane’s ravaging of his backside. Brain was a virgin to the cane and even with considerable protection of layers of denim and cotton underpants it felt like his backside was ablaze.

Brian was crumpled, breathless, shocked and utterly defeated.

“Stand,” a curt command from Mr. Bell.

He pulled himself up from his prone position, nursing his injured buttocks and wounded pride. With damp eyes he looked imploringly at his Mr. Bell and forced out his contrition with a strangled, “I’m sorry Mr. Bell, thank you.”

Mr. Bell tucked the cane under his arm like a sergeant-major, as Brian frantically tried to rub away the agony in his blistered buttocks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he repeated.

Mr. Bell knew that all recently-spanked boys said the same. And, as they danced up and down wondering if the pain in their bottoms would ever ease, they probably were.

The test of their true repentance came with their future behaviour. It was now up to Brian to show if he truly wanted help to reform. If he did, Mr. Bell and his cane would be ready, willing and able, to assist.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com