Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

Other stories you might like

Caned at college

Home early

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

It happened forty years ago. Forty years; I can scarcely believe it. Almost to the day too. It could never happen today. The world is an entirely different place. Even as I start to write this down I wonder if it really happened. Was it just a dream?

I wasn’t quite twenty-one years old and I was studying for a business degree. We had to spend an entire year working in industry and my college sent me to a small company in a town not far from London. I needed somewhere to live and digs were hard to come by, but a colleague called Simon said he knew of a place in a village nearby where they could give me a room.

Was there a glint of devilment in his eye when he told me this? I can’t be certain, but later I was damned sure he knew more than he was letting on.

We drove to a small village about four or five miles into the countryside. It was a typical English village of the time; a shop, two pubs and a church. The church came with a vicarage attached. It was a large rambling pile and far too big for the vicar to live there on his own. I’ll call him Rev. Jones, because, in fact, that was his name. He was well into his fifties at the time and I know he shuffled off to meet his maker some years ago (so I’m safe from the lawyers).

He was a large man, tall and despite advancing years he stood like a ram-rod. He had once captained his county at rugby union, apparently, and was still as strong as an ox. The afternoon Simon and I arrived, he was busy in the kitchen baking bread if the aroma that wafted throughout the house was any clue. He left us in a room he called his study while he went and turned the oven down or what not.

It was an imposing room; bookcases lined two walls and an open and unlit fire dominated another. The fourth wall was an impressive glass sliding door that opened out into a well-mown law and flower beds.

I perched on the edge of a large leather Chesterfield couch. I had never been in such a room. I had been brought up in a small council flat in London and had lived in a tiny room in the students’ halls of residence since going to the polytechnic. Simon, who I knew to be a former public school man, strode the room as if he owned it, peering at the books.

A broad smile split his face and he plucked a volume from a shelf. He was about to tell me about his find when the door flew open and Rev. Jones strode in. Sheepishly, like a small boy discovered with his fist in the cookie jar, Simon replaced the book.

“Well Richard,” Rev. Jones picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and struggled into it as he spoke, “You probably know that Andrew, another boy who worked at ______, lodged here,” I nodded agreement, although it was the first I had heard of this.

“Yes, a very good boy was Andrew,” Rev. Jones seemed wistful, “I rather miss him …” he trailed off.

He sat in a plush leather chair opposite me and stretched his legs wide. The armchair seemed dwarfed by his size. He told me about the house and the other two lads who were also his tenants. I hardly heard a word, I was mesmerised by the reverend’s deep blue eyes, peering at me over the top of his half-moon glasses. I could imagine him as a schoolmaster quelling twenty-five noisy boys with a single glare.

“Well, Richard,” he leaned forward and grasped my knee and held his hand there for what seemed an eternity. “Shall I give you the grand tour?” He climbed from the chair, flexed his shoulders and headed for the door, fully expecting me to trot along at his heels.

“Well, Richard, this is the kitchen …” He had the annoying habit of calling me by name at the start of nearly every sentence. “Richard this; Richard that.” I had told him when I telephoned for an appointment that my name was Ricky. I hated being called Richard. I thought Ricky made me sound more interesting. More American, perhaps.

We toured the house, the room that could be mine was huge. The rent was low. A match if I might venture to say so, made in Heaven. I agreed to move in the following day. Simon, I noticed, beamed brightly when I announced my decision.

My two housemates were at the door to greet me when I arrived. Ian was my own age and worked in a bank in town. Colm was a year or so younger and a labourer on a nearby farm.

“He’s alright when you get used to his ways,” Colm ventured an unsolicited opinion.

Ian blushed deeply.

“Just don’t break the rules, thas-sall,” Colm said as he disappeared up the stairs carrying one of my suitcases, leaving me standing in the hallway a little puzzled at his remark.

The very next day I got more than an inkling of what he meant.

We had breakfasted and I was heading back to my room when I heard a strange thud noise. I paused and sniffed the air. Thud. There is was again. It seemed to be coming from the study. Thud. This time followed by a slow hissing sound, rather like a snake.

Intrigued, I moved closer to the study. The door was slightly ajar. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could contain my curiosity no longer, so I inched it open. I can’t be sure if my mouth did literally gape wide open. If not literally, then at least figuratively. I had never seen anything remotely like it before in my life.

My new pal Ian was dressed in a white singlet and tight red football shorts. He was bent across the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. I had the perfect view of his muscular buttocks as Rev. Jones whacked what looked like a block of wood into them with some vigour. The teenager winced each time the punishment paddle connected with his bum. Air escaped his tightly closed mouth, but other than that he made no sound.

I counted a further three swipes before the vicar commanded, “You may stand,” and Ian shot to his feet. He turned and faced Rev. Jones. I saw his face was scarlet (I bet his bum was too) and his hair was wringing in sweat. I could tell he desperately wanted to rub away the sting from his buttocks but he was too proud to show he was hurt.

Suddenly, he looked over the vicar’s shoulder and saw me standing at the door. The vicar saw his look of humiliation and swivelled on his feet to see what had caused it.

“Richard!” he trilled. I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned on my heels and didn’t stop running until I was a hundred yards from the vicarage.

All day I couldn’t figure it out. What had I seen? Ian had allowed the vicar to spank his backside with a paddle – very hard indeed. Why? What had he done to deserve that? What right did the vicar have to whack him?

I couldn’t get the image of Ian submissively bent across the chair in very tight shorts and gleaming white singlet; his muscular buttocks absorbing the sting of the paddle.

Instinctively, I knew I had not heard the last of this. Rev. Jones was wild when he saw me snooping. I would have to answer to him when I returned to the vicarage that evening.

Simon came to my office, “How are you getting on with the vicar?” a Cheshire cat could not have grinned so widely. That was when I realised that he knew. Had he set me up? I never found out, since Simon left the company that week to return to his own studies and I never saw nor heard from him again.

Of course, Rev. Jones was ready to pounce the moment I walked through the door.

“My study. Now,” he snapped.

He made me stand on the carpet and he sat behind a rather grand desk. I felt every inch the naughty schoolboy up before the headmaster. His blue eyes stabbed me. All rational thought drained. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke, my heart thumped like it wanted to escape through my chest.

His voice wafted through the room as if they were part of a rather poor shortwave radio broadcast. I caught something about rules and there was a little about setting objectives. Rev. Jones stood and walked from behind his desk until he stood directly in front of me. I could smell stale tobacco on his breath.

Another voice spoke. I was astounded when I realised it was my own. “I was late back to work at lunchtime,” I was saying, “I stayed too long at the pub.” There was a hanging silence. I filled the void, “I do it quite often.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see Richard. This will not do at all.”

He moved across the room and picked up the chair I had seen Ian bent across that morning. While he did this, I tried to fathom why I had told him such a silly lie.

He put the chair down in the centre of the room. Then, without saying a word, he sat down and spread his legs wide. Instinctively, my eyes went to his crotch. I was no connoisseur of men’s cocks, but even hidden under a generous layer of cloth, his seemed larger than average.

He gestured that I should stand directly in front of him. I did.

“Richard, put your hands on your head.” I did that too.

He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I saw the book Simon had found the other day. My eyesight was good when I was twenty-one. I could read the title, “The history of corporal punishment.”

I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.

He spoke no words. What was there for him to say? I knew what he was intending to do. I knew also that I could prevent it at any moment. I was twenty-one and he was an old man. True, he was strong, but I needn’t look to beat him to a pulp. All I had to do was pull my trousers up and run from the house.

I gasped audibly when he took hold of my mustard-coloured briefs and gently pulled them down. My cock flipped over the elasticated waistband. I remember, even after forty years, that absurdly I wondered how much smaller my dick must be compared to Rev. Jones’.

“Richard,” the vicar spoke gently, “Bend over my knee.”

Of course, I hesitated.

“Richard, please do as you are told.” He spoke more sternly now. It was important to him that I show my subservience. I must in effect say, “Yes please Rev. Jones. Punish me. I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be spanked by you.”

I said none of these things. Instead, I took up position a yard from the vicar’s right thigh and gently lowered myself across his lap. I had never been spanked before, nor had I seen it happen to anyone else, but I suppose some kind of instinct took over from me. Was it primeval? Do all young men by nature know how to be submissive to an older man?

I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palms down into the thick pile carpet. My shoes had five-inch heels and a two-inch sole and felt remarkably heavy as my legs dangled in mid-air. My bare bottom was raised across Rev. Jones’ thigh. It was, I was soon to learn, in a perfect position to receive the punishment he intended to deliver.

He took the tail of my shirt and calmly folded it once, then twice, so that it was clear of his target area. I felt his palm caress my right cheek. My buttocks clenched. It was a reflex action. He smacked me gently.

“Richard, relax,” he purred.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was headed for unchartered territory. I had no notion what to expect. I was bent across an older man’s knee, bare-arsed. He could see right into my crack and up my hole, if the mood took him. Is it possible for a young man to be in a more humiliating position?

He cupped his palm and petted and patted both cheeks. When he was done doing that, he turned his attention to the backs of my bare thighs. It was surprisingly soothing.

What happened next was far from that. A searing storm of spanks thundered into my bum at great force and high speed. Within seconds not a square inch of flesh was left untenderized. He whizzed across the peaks of my mounds, into the most sensitive under-curves and across the top near the spine. Over and over and over again.

I twisted and turned this way and that. My legs kicked out behind me. It was like I was trying to swim away from his lap. He gripped my middle with his left arm and with his right hand he continued his assault.

At first my bum felt warm, rosy even. But, that glow quickly intensified into hot throbbing. I felt like I had sat in a bath of too-hot water. My flesh was scolding.

My hair was drenched with sweat, blood rushed through my body; my ears hurt so badly I was sure the drums would burst.

I have no idea how long the spanking continued. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: his hand must surely have been hurting as much as my bum. To me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my pants and trousers up. I daren’t look at the vicar and concentrated on getting all the buttons in place.

It took an age. While I did this, Rev. Jones lectured me.

“Richard, I hope you understand why I felt the need to punish you.”

I truly did not, but felt it wise not to argue the point.

“Richard,” he continued as I stared intently at my feet, “I am sure that I can help you to become a fine young man. But, you need to learn to obey the rules. If you are unable to do so. You must be punished.”

The pain in my bum had almost completely vanished by now. My head was clearing. I just wanted to get out of that study.

“Richard,” the vicar was about to finish. “I hope you feel able to accept my rules and I would very much like you to stay. But, if you cannot, then I’m afraid you must leave the vicarage.”

I nodded sagely and without a word, I returned to my room.

I sent much of the next year admiring at close quarters the carpet in the vicar’s study and sniffing the leather of his Chesterfield couch; I suppose you would have to conclude that I wasn’t very good at obeying the rules.

 

Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The room at the top

One hot summer afternoon

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

Other stories from The Tyrant Headmaster are here

 

Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

Bug on the wall

The Post Office Thief

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Changed Times 9. The truck

A glimpse into the near future. Other Changed Times stories are here.

z used bum bent over truck (1)

 

I thought Mr. Whittaker was kidding me when he said if I arrived late one more time he would make me take down my trousers and pants and bend over the back of the truck for a belt whipping.

Well, really. I’m twenty years old not some baby.

I hadn’t reckoned on the new law that allows employers to spank their younger workers. Nobody my age is safe now.

I’m not good in the morning. I always wake up with a raging hard-on and it takes me half an hour to deal with that (you don’t want to hurry these things) and then if the bus is delayed or full I’m late for work.

Mr. Whittaker is older than my dad; bigger and stronger too. It’s all the outdoor work we do. He keeps his corduroy trousers up with a thick, wide, leather belt. I tried to pretend I wasn’t late. I’d just been to the toilet for a slash, but he was having none of it.

I swear he grinned when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go stand by the truck.”

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Whittaker’ me,” he sneered, reaching for the buckle of his belt. “We do this or you can go back to the dole queue.”

He had me there and he knew it. There are no jobs out there, especially not for young people. If you’re out of work for more than three months they send you to a workcamp. What happens there is a bit of a secret, but if the rumours are true I for one don’t want to go there.

Mr. Whittaker read my thoughts. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get outside.”

My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before. That was bad enough, but I had to take down my jeans and boxers and let Mr. Whittaker see my cock and balls. And, Jesus H. Christ, my crack and hole when I bent over. And, now the whole firm was standing around as well.

Mr. Whittaker pulled his belt through the trouser loops with a flourish, like a magician pulling a cloth away during a trick. He’s got some beer gut and it turns out he doesn’t really need the belt to keep his trousers up. He wears it just for show, or maybe to have something at hand to whip his workers.

He folded the belt in two; it must have been a couple of feet long. He waved it around, just to make sure I knew what it looked like. It seemed very heavy, in the right hands it could take my arse off.

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

I resolved not to make a fool of myself by pleading for mercy or making a fuss, but I could not get my fingers to move.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Mr. Whittaker snarled. I swear I heard a snigger somewhere in the audience. At last I had my own belt undone. I wear my jeans loose; we used to wear them half way down our arses, but they started arresting kids for indecency, so that fashion soon stopped. I undid the button on my jeans and they slipped down my legs. I was wearing blue boxers with white dots. My mum bought them for me, I don’t think I’ve ever bought my own pants in my life.

“Those too,” Mr. Whittaker nodded and swished his belt about again. I turned my back to the crowd, screwed my eyes tight and slowly lowered my boxers. More than one of the guys wolf-whistled. I only hope one of them wasn’t that poofter Barclay.

They could see my bare bum but not my tackle. I’m not usually this shy. I do a lot of football and we’re always together in the showers waving our willies around. No lady would be disappointed with me, if you get my drift.

“Over.”

There was no way out of this. I had to let this old man whip my bare arse with his belt. Mr. Whittaker had already lowered the truck’s tailgate, so I leant forward. It was just like bending across a table. I kept my knees together so they couldn’t see my crack, folded my arms and buried my head in them. I felt a warm breeze cross my naked bum. Then, Mr. Whittaker rested the heavy leather belt across the centre of my cheeks. He was taking aim.

He let fly. Crack, he got me right on the sit-spot, the soft underside of the buttocks. It hurt, but not as much as I expected. He whipped me again and again. There was a deathly hush, all you could hear was the leather cracking against my bum. I’ve got a bit of meat back there, so the belt sank deep. The belt was snaking around my buttocks and connecting with the side of my cheeks. Later when I had a look there were ugly purple welts.

I didn’t count the strokes, but later Sandy told me it had been fifty lashes. My bum was sore, but I wasn’t really in agony. My cheeks were a mess though, they were so criss-crossed with lines it looked like a map of Clapham Junction. The skin on my bum felt like leather.

The pain quickly eased, except for a couple of lashes that had hit on the back of my thighs. They throbbed a bit, especially when I sat down.

Mr. Whittaker seemed a little disappointed when it was over. He grunted to me to get dressed and hurried off to the toilet. My workmates carried on with their business.

Mr. Whittaker said no more about my spanking. Next day, I arrived on time find he had brought a thick, whippy, curve-handled cane and hung it on a nail on the office wall that he had hammered in specially.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The paper boy and Candy

Remembering Professor Price

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com