The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

z used solo chest smoking orient (8)

The new Chief Coach knew what he would do if he could have his way. A so-called top class footballer smoking cigarettes. What was the boy thinking?

And, he still was a boy.

Chief Coach Herbertsen had only recently been appointed to lead one of the best-known football clubs in the world and he was expected to deliver great things: the championship title at least.

There were some problems at the club, and most of them had to do with the attitude of the players. The older men were trouble enough, but now he had to deal with one of the “rising stars.”

It was all over the news media and some commentators were saying it was a scandal. A professional footballer had been photographed smoking a cigarette. What a disgrace.

Chief Coach Herbertsen put down the newspaper in despair. The front page; the “story” had made the front page for chrissake. In a few moments time the young footballer in question was due to appear before him and he was expected to do something about it.

Let’s call him Bobby Dazzler, just in case any lawyers are reading this: we don’t need another scandal. You know who it is.

Dazzler had just turned eighteen and was a rising star at the club. He had just broken into the first team, but was spending most of his time on the bench. When he came off it, or when he started some of the minor matches, he’d shown himself to be a very enterprising goal scorer. But, he was just at the start of his career. He needed a lot of discipline if he were to make it in the word of football. Herbertsen had lost count of the number of talented but ill-disciplined teenagers who eventually came to nothing in their twenties.

Dazzler could go that way if he didn’t buck up his ideas.

He’d been out one night, in the street, just walking somewhere like an ordinary civilian, when he lit up a cigarette. A passing citizen on a cell phone captured him enjoying his Marlborough and this being the twenty-first century, immediately sold the image to a tabloid newspaper.

And, now it was a big deal, an athlete smoking tobacco. It had been a major item on twenty-four-hour television news all yesterday and they were still talking about it this morning. Social media had gone crazy and every sanctimonious so-and-so in cyberspace had a view. Dazzler was not coming out of this well.

Herbertsen would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so worried. What was he supposed to do about it? The club wanted Dazzler “disciplined” to appease all those critics and it was up to him to do it.

Herbertsen despaired. He often thought that football clubs treated their players like schoolchildren. It happened all the time; especially when they travelled to away matches or went away on tour. The players were told when to get up in the morning, what to eat, when to eat it, when to take a nap in the daytime and when to go to bed at night. Even when they were away from the club they were expected to observe a night-time curfew; to be home no later than eleven o’clock; even earlier if there was a match the next day.

It was even worse when the players were staying at a hotel; there were strict rules about behaviour; if they used their cell phones or tablets and the like they had them confiscated. It was worse than being at boarding school. No girls were allowed of course, not even wives. Coach Herbertsen or a member of his staff were expected to make what they called a “dormitory round” at night to make sure everyone was where they should be and there were no illegal visitors.

That was embarrassing for everyone concerned. Especially the one time Herbertsen stumbled across two of his players and very well-known ones at that (very well known: it would make your hair curl if you discovered their names) together pleasuring one another under the bed clothes. What could Herbertsen do? They were over the age of consent and it was legal. He just closed the door and none of them ever mentioned the matter again.

Yes, they were treated just like schoolboys. They even had their own “prefects.” The senior players ruled the roost. If you were a new member of the playing squad, especially if you had just been promoted from the junior ranks, you knew your place and you stuck to it. Only speak when spoken to; keep your opinions to yourself. The club captain was like God (or the Head Boy at least). You just did not get on his wrong side.

The cherry on the cake was the clothes the players were forced to wear. The red blazer with white braiding and grey trousers, white shirt, club tie: it really was indistinguishable from a school uniform. All it needed was the addition of grey short trousers and they would look like a bunch of little kids. As it was Dazzler was so young he was no older than a senior schoolboy; someone in the sixth-form, say. Coach Herbertsen saw real schoolboys every day in the street that looked older than some of his football squad.

Ha! Herbertsen thought we really do treat them like schoolkids. Smoking a cigarette. Well, back in the day, he knew how the school would have dealt with that. Off to the housemaster’s study; bend over; sore bum; don’t let me catch you smoking again. All over in a moment. No fuss.

Why couldn’t it be that simple, now? Herbertsen was the boss of the players, their headmaster if you want to continue the analogy, and one of his jobs was to impose discipline. There wasn’t much he could do when they broke the rules. If one of the lads missed training without an excuse or broke one of the more petty rules, he usually summoned him to his office.

There was no cane or paddle. He would give them a rollicking. The media called it “the hairdryer treatment.” Sometimes, he thought, it would do more good if he gave them the “hairbrush treatment.”

Herbertsen knew if the reports he received from the junior squad manager were true, Dazzler was in trouble for more than just smoking cigarettes. He liked a drink and his house situated just outside of town was the venue for lots of parties involving the club’s younger players, including many who were only apprentices. Dazzler should be setting them an example, not leading them astray.

Then there was the bullying: he had it on good authority that Dazzler was the leader of a gang who terrorised some of the younger players. Herbertsen could scarcely believe it but Dazzler and the others took one of the kids and put him in the clothes drier in the club’s laundry. The poor lad had some kind of fit.

Dazzler arrived for his meeting ten minutes late and was neither apologetic about his poor timekeeping nor contrite about his smoking. Herbertsen was not impressed. He tore into the boy, ranting about his bad behaviour and was rewarded with a shrug of the shoulders and a pout for his trouble.

He felt his anger rising and was about to punch the brat in the mouth when he regained control for just long enough to tell him to F-off out of his office and come back to see him after training.

Herbertsen had calmed down considerably by the time Dazzler reappeared later that day. He had consulted with the club’s chairman who confirmed that although Dazzler might yet prove to be a star, he wasn’t there yet, and if the Head Coach wanted to transfer him to another club, that was alright with him.

Good, thought Herbertsen, let’s deal with the brat once and for all. And, he hatched a plan on how to do exactly that.

Dazzler had also had time to think carefully about the newspaper reports. On the phone, his agent had warned him that he shouldn’t upset the club. It was a major world footballing power and if it let him go, the only way to go would be down. With his growing reputation as a smoker and a party-animal another top club was unlikely to move in with a contract. That would be the end of his career, the fame and the riches. And, Dazzler had already decided at the tender age of eighteen, he would do anything to achieve these.

It was imperative that he make his peace with the Head Coach.

Dazzler was on time for his second meeting of the day with Coach Herbertsen and ready to show him some remorse.

But, he didn’t get the chance. “I have discussed it with the chairman and your contract will be terminated forthwith.”

The shocking news took the wind out of Dazzler and he held on to a table to stop himself fainting to the ground.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. You are constantly misbehaving and you show no remorse. It is best that you go.”

Remorse? Dazzler had prepared a little speech of apology, but now he had forgotten every word of it.

Tears welled in his eyes and all he could say was, “I’m sorry, boss, I’m sorry.”

Herbertsen looked at the teenager with satisfaction. That was more like it; he’s not so arrogant now.

Dazzler pleaded for one last chance. He would do better. He promised.

“You lack discipline. You behave like a spoilt child. There is nothing I can do with you,” the Head Coach said, but he knew there was something he could do and the solution was hidden in his desk drawer.

“Please,” Dazzler was begging now. “I’ll do anything, please give me a second chance.”

He had flown straight into the Head Coach’s web.

“Maybe there is something we can do. You act like a spoilt brat and you need to be taken down a peg or two.”

Dazzler looked on blankly, not comprehending his boss.

The Head Coach opened his drawer and pulled out a large oval shaped hairbrush, borrowed from one of the women office workers this afternoon for this particular purpose.

“You need a damn good spanking.”

Dazzler’s jaw almost dropped at the absurdity of the situation he now found himself in, but he had the good sense to stay silent.

“This can be your one last chance,” Herbertsen assured him as he waved the hairbrush in the footballer’s direction.

To say Dazzler couldn’t believe it was an understatement. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? The coach spanking the football player: was it even legal?

Yet, in his present circumstances it was the only solution. He would submit to his boss and be able to pursue the fame and fortune of a career at one of the world’s top clubs. Otherwise his career was as good as over.

Herberston wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter.

“I want you to lower your trousers. You can keep your underpants on. Then bend across my desk. C’mon, do it now.”

Dazzler knew he had only seconds to make the biggest decision of his life. Bend over and show the Head Coach his arse, or walk out of the door, possibly to oblivion.

When he thought about it later he couldn’t remember much of what happened next. But he did know that he unbuckled his belt, let his trousers fall to his knees and then he lent face down across the boss’s huge desk.

Dazzler didn’t know how many times Herbertsen smacked the wooden hairbrush across the seat of his boxer briefs, but later, back at home, as he nursed his raw buttocks, he could see both cheeks and this thighs down almost to the backs of his knees were covered in mauve bruises and some were turning black.

The throbbing pain had died down, but the whole area was still tender to the touch and he had difficulty sitting comfortably.  These bruises would last for days, probably weeks: how would he explain them away to the guys in the dressing room?

He couldn’t be certain but he thought he might have bawled his eyes out as he lay face down across the desk, the hairbrush raining down across his buttocks, while he gripped the edge of the desk for dear life.

By the time he reached home, his nerves were still shot to pieces. He needed something to calm himself down. In the room below he had a packet of cigarettes and there was booze in the fridge …

Picture credit: Orient

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Pyjama Bottoms Down. Bend Over

z used cane pyjamas bare desk london CPS

I was sitting in my oak-panelled study waiting for Tomkins of the Sixth to report to me. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to give him twelve on the bare. He needed to learn a lesson and I was the one to teach it.

I luxuriated in my armchair reading the evening newspaper, enjoying my pipe. I was in no hurry. I had made him wait all day and only now, just before lights out, I sent word for him to see me immediately.

There was a light tap on the study door. Tomkins was here. I paused before answering. “Come!”

Tomkins knew he was due a beating. The door handle turned slowly and very reluctantly he pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into my study.

“Come in boy! Don’t dawdle! Close the door!” I snapped.

He closed the door as instructed and stood only a couple of paces inside the room, not sure what to do next.

“You wanted to see me sir.”

I peered at him over the top of my reading glasses. Tomkins, an eighteen-year-old senior boy, a prefect no less, was dressed in grey-and-white-striped pyjamas. He was hopping from one bare foot to another in confusion.

“I’m not yet ready for you! Face the wall and wait for me.”

He looked around the study unsure where he was meant to go. It was a large room; one side was dominated by an as-yet unlit open fireplace. Mahogany bookshelves behind glass doors ran the length of the room alongside it.

The other main wall had closed cupboards, for teaching materials and so-forth. One cupboard that was taller and narrower than the others contained implements of an especial educational nature.

“There boy,” I pointed with my pipe to the corner nearest the door.

He turned around to face away from me.

“Closer boy! I want to see your nose touch the wall.” He shuffled into position.

“Hands on head!” He did as he was told.

I returned to my newspaper. Let him sweat a bit, I thought.

After a few minutes I had finished the newspaper and contemplated the task in hand. Tomkins was a repeat offender and had been caught smoking again. As his housemaster, I’d already beaten him once this term for smoking and he had been warned about his future conduct.

Smoking was bad enough, I thought as I puffed on my pipe, but to do it again after a previous punishment and thereby to disregard my instruction was rank disobedience and I would have none of it. His beating had to be exemplary.

“Turn around Tomkins,” I ordered. He did so, still clasping his hands to the top of his head.

“Come forward and stand in front of me.” He did. He must have been two or three inches taller than me, and I noticed for the first time that he was really incredibly thin.

Maybe it was because he was in his pyjamas. Last time I thrashed him he had been in full school uniform, including a pullover and blazer. That clothing must have bulked him out a bit.

“Take your hands off your head and stand up straight.”

He did so. Tomkins wasn’t a particularly pretty boy, I noticed. His thin face was pock marked and his teeth were pretty bad and if he carried on smoking the way he did they’d soon be yellow.

But, it wasn’t his front side that I was interested in this day.

I lectured him a little. It wasn’t really necessary: he knew why he was here. And, then I pronounced sentence.

“So, you deserve a sound thrashing and that is what you will receive. I’m giving you twelve cuts on the bare.”

I’m not sure he was expecting that. It was twice the number of strokes I had ever given him previously and canings on the bare at this school were rare indeed.

The colour drained from his already pasty-coloured face, but he remained standing, silent, waiting for my further instructions, and ready to comply with them.

I’d thought hard about whether it should be on the bare, after all his pyjama bottoms wouldn’t be much protection for the twelve stingers I intended to administer. But, he was a prefect and a serial offender and I was convinced he was cocking a snook at the school rules and my authority in particular, so I wanted to make him suffer.

I was also aware of a newspaper report I read a year or two previously. A school housemaster was in court charged with ‘indecent assault’ after he beat a boy on his bare bottom. How it got to court I don’t know. The magistrate dismissed the case and said if this was to be considered indecent assault half the housemasters in English public schools would be in court. Sensible fellow.

Not everybody believes in caning naughty schoolboys, of course. I have a housemaster colleague at the school here who never canes. He says the embarrassment of the punishment is as effective as the pain it might cause. Therefore, he takes his boys across his knee for a spanking.

I looked at Tomkins. Think about it, telling an eighteen-year-old boy to bend over your knee and then smacking him on his bottom.  Can you imagine such a thing?

I went to the tall, narrow cupboard and took out the cane I had already decided to use. It wasn’t a big thick stick. People with no experience of these matters always assume the bigger and thicker the cane is, the more it will hurt. Not so.

The cane I chose was dark yellow in colour, quiet thin, but made of very dense rattan. It would leave its marks on Tomkins’ behind for many days to come.

I took it from the cupboard and swished it through the air, to show the boy what it could do. He looked apprehensive, as well he might.

“Stand by the desk,” I pointed with the cane. He moved in the right direction, but stopped short by two or three feet.

“Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more.

“Get those pyjamas down boy.” After some hesitation, Tomkins looked down at his waist, pulled at the cord holding his bottoms up and allowed them to fall to his ankles.

I stood within his eye line, swished my cane through the air two or three more times. Then I tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Without question, he leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk. His pyjama jacket was covering his bottom. I pushed it further up his back.

“Underpants Tomkins. You don’t wear underpants with pyjamas. Stand up.”

I suppose he wanted the extra layer of protection the Y-fronts would give him. He might have got away with it if he was to be whacked on his pyjama bottoms.

“Get them down.” Sorrowfully, Tomkins took hold of the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down to his ankles, where they rested on top of his pyjamas.

“Bend over boy.”

Tomkins repeated the manoeuvre. I pushed his pyjama jacket up, this time revealing a pair of surprisingly smooth and hairless buttocks.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.” I stood to his side a full cane length from him and after bending my knees a little I tapped the tip of the cane against the edge of his left cheek.

The tapping allowed me to take aim and then drawing my arm back several feet I crashed the cane across both buttocks. He whelped and a thick red line immediately appeared where the cane had bitten into flesh.

I repeated the procedure. He gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, even though I had intended it as a rhetorical question.

Two thick welts were rising, running across both his buttocks.

I managed to land the third and fourth cuts on top of the previous two. Tomkins was jerking his body from side to side. This was a reflex action against the pain, but mostly he was managing to keep quiet.

I liked the boys I thrashed to be stoic. I despised the boys who couldn’t take their canings and yelled and bawled their eyes out. I had enough experience beating schoolboys (and of being on the receiving end myself) to know that my canings hurt like hell. The boys might try to make it look that they were unconcerned by the pain, but I knew otherwise.

I lashed down strokes five and six. Tomkins’ head rose from the desk and he brought his arms back so he could bury his face in them.

I swiped a couple of strokes high and a couple low and was rewarded with a four almost inaudible “Arrrggghhhhs” from Tomkins.

The boy seemed to bite into his own arm after I delivered the next cut.

I whipped the final stroke diagonally across both of Tomkins’ buttocks, making sure the cane hit as many of the previously delivered cuts as possible. This time he desperately tried to muffle a loud yell, but he couldn’t quite keep it in.

I looked over at his face. It was almost as red as his backside. I could see his eyes were watering and he was trying not to cry.

I tapped the cane across his bottom. He braced himself, expecting another slash. But, there were to be no more. I had promised him twelve strokes and I had delivered twelve. I was a man of my word.

I tapped the cane on his left buttock one more time.

“Don’t let me catch you smoking again.”

“No sir.”

He was still lying across the desk. I walked behind him to admire my handiwork. His smooth, hairless, previously white, bottom was a mass of red welts. Some were turning blue and would change to purple before too long. Blood was forming at some of the intersections where my final diagonal cut had crossed the others.

“Stand up Tomkins. Get dressed.”

He shot up at such a speed he startled me. In one swift movement he bent down to grab his underpants, but it was with great difficulty that he pulled them up to his waist. He winced in agony as he pulled the Y-fronts over his buttocks and they connected with his wounds.

He bent down to his ankles again to retrieve his pyjama bottoms, flinching as he stretched the flesh of his buttocks against his pants.

He stood up and I was able to look him in the face. I could see he wanted to bawl his eyes out, but pride I suppose stopped him from doing this.

I gave him time to tie the cord of his pyjamas waistband.

“Back to your dormitory. No more trouble.”

He was through the door in a heartbeat.

Picture Credit: CP Services London

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Military Camp

z used birch for military camp

Lieutenant-Colonel Toby Masterton looked the boy straight in the eyes. “Your behaviour has been contrary to good military discipline. You will now drop your trousers, bend over and touch your toes.”

Eighteen-year-old Sapper Alan Barrett had been returning his commander’s stare impassively; but now his eyes sparkled as the seriousness of the situation sank in.

He had not expected this. Barrett knew the Lt-Col was newly appointed to command the Royal Engineers embarkation camp. What he didn’t know was that Masterton had specific instructions to tighten up discipline at the unit. And, he was going to do this in traditional military style.

The Lt-Col rose from behind his desk and picked up his swagger stick. It was a solid rod, about twenty inches long. He knew from experience this would leave an impression on the boy’s behind that he wouldn’t forget in a very long time.

“Get on with it Barrett,” it was a stern command. Masterton smacked the stick into the palm of his left hand to emphasise his impatience.

Barrett had not expected this. He had been absent from the camp without leave and knew he would have to be punished, but usually a lad was confined to camp or lost some other privileges, or even a day’s pay. But, to be ordered to take down his trousers and bend over like some schoolboy in front of the headmaster was unheard of.

Blushing scarlet, the boy began to loosen his trousers and let them drop to the top of his (not very highly polished) army boots. Then in one athletic movement he swooped over, stretching his fingers so the tips touched his steel toe caps. Barrett knew the procedure. He had been caned many times both at school and the orphanage where he had been brought up. He knew very well the sting a whippy rattan cane could make as it thwacked into his stretched backside.

The difference today was that he wasn’t at school, his trousers were at his feet and it wasn’t the headmaster about to whack him with a thin whippy cane, it was his commanding officer who was going to lay into him with a solid stick.

Masterton looked on impassively as the boy obeyed his order without question. He deserved this thrashing and it would do him a lot of good, he thought. Once word got around camp that this was how miscreants were treated, the Lt-Col expected behaviour to improve immeasurably.

Masterton took hold of the boy’s khaki shirt and moved the tail away from the target area, revealing an expanse of off-white cotton underpants. Barrett was quite small, a consequence of poor diet from an early age. Most men of his social class were the same. It was a wonder they were fit enough to undertake military service.

He placed his hand on the base of Barrett’s back to move him slightly so he could get an uninterrupted swing into his buttocks, raised the swagger stick shoulder high and brought it crashing down into the boy’s cheeks. He let out a gasp and screwed up his face tightly, but otherwise remained impassive. After a dozen strokes he was ordered to stand.

Barrett had never known such agony, it felt like his bum was a covered in welts and his pants were stuck to his skin; he was sure he was bleeding.

His face had turned from scarlet to deathly white and he was desperate to scream out with the intense pain, but he was a military man and as such he could not show he was hurt.

On command he pulled up his trousers and was dismissed. Later, he was still so sore he had to eat his lunch standing up.

Masterton was thirty-nine years old and had been brought back to England from Germany to take command of the camp. The Top Brass had decided it was going to ruin and it needed a strong disciplinarian to turn it around. Masterton was their man and they didn’t mind too much how he went about the job as long as he succeeded.

The Lt-Col soon let it be known to fellow officers and NCOs that he approved of corporal punishment above all other sanctions and he was prepared to turn a blind eye to its use.

That was how Peter Jenkins found himself, trousers and pants down, bent across the knee of Lt Allenby. Gunner Jenkins was a mess orderly and among his other duties he was expected to keep Allenby’s quarters clean and tidy. He was a jolly boy and Allenby liked having him around. He wasn’t well educated and Allenby had started helping him with his reading (many of the boys joined up especially so they could have a chance to learn to read and write). Allenby thought he had developed a good relationship with the eighteen year old and hoped the boy saw him as a bit of a father figure.

Things went very well until one day anxious to get away from camp on a forty-eight hour pass Jenkins skipped his chores and left the lieutenant’s bed unmade and his room un-cleaned.

Jenkins knew he had behaved badly and expected to be punished on his return. But he didn’t expect to find himself face down across his commander’s knees staring at the un-swept floor while the lieutenant whacked his bare arse with a gym slipper. The pain was intense and so was the humiliation of showing his crack and balls to his master.

After a couple of dozen hard whacks the boy was released. For some moments he stood hypnotized, not certain what he should do next. His rear was on fire and raw from the top of the cheeks to his thighs. The imprint of the slipper was clearly visible where the sole had branded the flesh. If you looked closely you might be able to read the trade name ‘Dunlop’ in reverse across his buttocks.

Allenby ordered him to get dressed and resume his duties. So, fighting back the urge to bawl his eyes out and with a throbbing backside, the eighteen year old held onto a broom and started to sweep the floor.

..

No boy on the base was allowed to smoke until he reached twenty-one and became a legal adult. If he did Lt-Col Masterton had ordered he should be flogged across the buttocks with a stout cane. He preferred it to be done with some ritual.

The camp’s military police soon devised a ceremony that struck fear into the hearts of all the young tobacco addicts. Tommy Alberston, a twenty-year-old serial smoker, was the first to go through the rite. The camp had a dummy gun, rather like a canon used one hundred or more years earlier, and this became the centrepiece of the proceedings. He was marched in to discover beside the gun a file of men and a corporal from the military police; he was a big, powerful fellow and he fingered a stout cane.

On command Alberson stepped forward hitched up his trousers and threw himself across the gun on his stomach; his head hanging down one side, his feet on the other. A couple of men knelt by his head and took a wrist and an ankle each and drew them together so that the trousers fitted very tightly across the young man’s firm buttocks.

The corporal threw himself into his striking stance, intending to inflict the maximum pain possible. Swish! Alberson stifled a scream and tried to wriggle free, but the two men gripped him firmly in position.

The corporal was in no hurry. The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut. This second one – swish! – came underhand and upwards. He wriggled on the gun, sweat now pouring from his body and his face was scarlet as one supposed were his buttocks.

Whizz! A straight forearm cut fair across the other two lines. The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes, and trotted off to his duties, but he wouldn’t be able to sit down to do them for a day or two.

..

Nobody could remember the last time a lad had been birched at the camp. The police corporal didn’t even know how to prepare the birch rods so he sought the advice of a willing retired officer. He was able to find the necessary leafless branches in a copse close to the army camp. He cut eight of them so they were three feet long and tightly bound them at the base with sticking plaster. He had been advised to soak the birch in brine for as long as possible to ensure the suppleness of the rods and the effectiveness of the sting they would inflict on bared flesh: he found a large enamel bucket and thus prepared he was ready to deal with Gunner Johnstone.

Johnstone was nineteen-years-old and something of a recidivist; he was constantly in trouble and often for similar offences which other punishments had failed to control. When sentence was passed, twelve cuts of the birch bare breech, he was impassive. He too knew no lad had been birched in living memory and when he survived the ordeal he would be something of a hero in the camp.

The sentence was set for the following morning (to allow the birch to soak overnight) and Johnstone was summoned to the camp gymnasium for nine o’clock. As with Alberston’s caning, there was a guard of honour to meet him when he arrived as instructed dressed only in a white PT vest and tight gym shorts. Johnstone was a big fit lad, standing over 6 ft tall and he was a keen football player and athlete. His body was muscular and well-toned and he fitted snugly into the vest and shorts; not that it mattered too much since the shorts would be removed and the vest pulled right back so that he was naked from nearly the shoulders down.

He was commanded to stand in front of the vaulting horse and after the charges and the punishment details were read aloud, he was instructed, “shorts down and over the horse lad.”

Johnstone wished that some of his pals were among the guard of honour to witness how well he would take the birching; after all a little bit of history was about to be made here.

The corporal and his colleagues had decided Johnstone should not be held down for his whipping, instead he would be expected to take it like a man. They fully expected that he would not be able to do so and would try to escape his punishment after the first lash landed eight supple birch twigs into his bared buttocks. Then, they would add to his humiliation by forcing him back over the horse and holding him steady while the corporal laid in the remaining eleven cuts.

Johnstone stuck his thumbs in the waistband of the tight white shorts and tugged them down to his feet. Then, not looking to left or right he swiftly dived across the back of the horse. It could have been tailor made for him. A fit young man of 6ft easily fitted across the horse and with his feet planted firmly on the ground on one side he was able to stretch over the horse’s back and grab hold of the rope handles on the side that were used for carrying the PE equipment.

The corporal had a grudging admiration for the boy, who seemed ready to take his punishment without fuss. The corporal had never birched anyone before but had been advised that the pain from such a punishment could be less than that from a traditional caning and therefore he must ensure he lashed the birch rods into the proffered fleshy buttocks at considerable force.

He withdrew the birch rod from the enamel bucket and the sound of wood against metal echoed around the gymnasium, making Johnstone crane his neck to see what was going on behind him.

“Face the front lad,” ordered the leader of the punishment detail and then after a pause. “Let the punishment commence.”

The corporal took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. Johnstone flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home, the corporal took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke.

Johnstone gasped and gripped tightly onto the rope handles, but other than that he made no reaction. Eight small scars immediately formed across the centre of his buttocks.

Number two hurt the boy even more, but he was determined not to show it. He groaned a little, but he was still in control of himself. Lash number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; Johnstone gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down and he hoped no one in the punishment detail had noticed.

Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The pain turned to agony and the boy’s face was as white as a sheet. The next swipe had him almost tearing the ropes from their moorings. He groaned at the agony and tears formed in his eyes, but he was not a broken man.

The corporal, unsure how a boy should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the nineteen-year-old gunner hard enough, laid the next strokes on with renewed vigour. Johnstone wriggled his body from left to right, but with the aid of the horse’s handles he struggled to remain in position, prostrate across the wooden vaulting horse with his bared arse still pointing submissively at his punisher.

By cut number ten, blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now reddening bottom. Johnstone let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling the gymnasium down. The agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with the effort of gripping at the rope and his finger nails had cut deep trenches in the palms of his hands. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction.

Then, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, Johnstone’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell he so wanted to make. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

“Punishment over,” the leader of punishment detail intoned and unceremoniously the corporal replaced the birch rod in the bucket of brine.

Johnstone lay across the vaulting horse; a spent man. He could barely breathe and was in urgent need of medical attention, but the punishment detail being inexperienced in birching had not thought to invite a doctor to attend as witness.

“Dismissed.”

It was a curt instruction; Johnstone fell off the back of the horse but managed (just) to stay upright. He took a deep gasp, hauled his shorts up to cover his blazing bottom and staggered out the door, bouncing off the wall as soon as he was through it and out of sight of the others.

The punishment detail was dismissed and the corporal tidied way the horse before picking up the birch rods and the bucket.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the corporal had a grudging admiration for Johnstone and the way he had taken his whipping. But the admiration was only grudging. Next time, he vowed to himself as he closed and locked the gym door, he would whip the brat to death.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Junior Salesman

z used cane holding (4)

The twenty-year-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

Submissively, Tyler did as he was told.  He rubbed his hands together, flexed the muscles in his arms, arched his back and stooped forward to present his buttocks for a thrashing. With his feet planted a yard apart and his legs straight, he was in the perfect position. His bottom was thrust up with only the thin material of his underpants between him and the cane. He felt like his arse was on offer, raised provocatively to his master.

Mr Davenport waited. There was no need to hurry. The longer this took the more he would enjoy it.

“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your sales results this month are appalling,” Mr Davenport swished the cane through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.

Bent double, with his fingertips touching his toes, Tyler was in no position to argue. It didn’t matter what he had to say in mitigation (in truth he had nothing, he was guilty as charged on all counts), his boss had already decided on his course of action. The young salesman had no real choice but to obey: for him it was the swish of cane or the unemployment line.

His bottom was thrust out backwards invitingly as he touched his toes, stretching the cotton underpants tight. Tyler’s hair fell forward untidily and his buttocks trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed his growing apprehension as he waited for the thrashing to begin.

Mr Davenport believed there was no point caning a boy unless it hurt, so he always caned on the bare buttocks. He set the cane down on his desk and approached Tyler from behind. In one swift movement he grasped the young man’s underpants at each hip and gently lowered them down his thighs until they rested precariously at his knees. One sharp move from Tyler would see them tumble down his shins to a final resting place at his feet.

The boss admired Tyler’s creamy white hairless buttocks. It was obvious he had recently shaved: back and front. The young salesman felt incredibly foolish, his bottom bared, offered for chastisement. He twitched in anticipation as his boss moved behind him. Surely, he was ready now? Why did he always play these games; making him wait, and wait, before cracking the first agonising stoke across his bum?

His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. He was a big man, physically fit. Tyler had been beaten by him before so knew how much it was going to hurt.

Nearly ready, the tip of Mr Davenport’s tongue licked his lips, as he flexed the cane and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s naked arse. Slowly he removed the cane and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing stroke reminded him just why the cane was to be feared.

After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached.

Swish-Crack!  Mr Davenport whipped a third stroke down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

Another stroke followed and landed just below the first. This time the young man gasped and felt tears coming into his eyes as the intense sting burned deep into his buttocks, The following strokes landed lower down before he could catch his breath another lashed right into his sit-spot where the cheeks met the thighs.

As he struggled for breath, Tyler felt the gentle (reassuring almost) touch of his boss’s hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, this was before a further three strokes lashed across his bottom leaving him yelling and crying bitterly as Mr Davenport raised weal after weal across his sorry burning backside.

Mr Davenport was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the cane once more before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this stroke was incredible and resounded all around the small office.

Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr Davenport stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering. “It’s over,” he said. “You can get up now.”

Tyler managed to raise himself up, the change of position made his arse hurt even more; how he wanted to rub it, but he knew his master never allowed that till you left the office. In severe pain he bent and pulled first his underpants and then his trousers up over his blistered cheeks. The touch of cloth on burning flesh reignited the agony in his buttocks.

“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”  his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave. Brushing away tears from his eyes he thanked his punisher, turned and left the office. Once outside he gave his arse a much needed rub then hobbled off to the lockers to collect his belongings and go home; safe in the knowledge that he would get a pay cheque for at least one more month.

Mr Davenport pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew a box of tissues before ripping down the front of his trousers. He was stiff and aching and he came almost immediately.

Relaxing minutes later with a mug of fresh coffee, he recalled the first time he saw Tyler, four months ago at Whacko! a club for corporal punishment enthusiasts. Tyler and another lad just turned up out of the blue. They were dressed like schoolboys, in long grey trousers; white shirt, striped tie: they were obviously on the make. If they weren’t quite rent boys, they weren’t far off. Mr Davenport enjoyed Whacko! – you could do all kinds of things in the playrooms: canings, slipperings, beltings; but nothing too heavy. The only drawback was so many of the men were middle aged; you never had the chance to take a youngster across your knee for a bare-bottomed spanking or order them to, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

That night the club members drank their fill, including Mr Davenport. Tyler was most obliging. Mr Davenport could feel his penis rising at the memory of it: Tyler bent over his knees; head down, legs straightened behind him; his muscular buttocks perfectly positioned to feel the stinging slaps from the palm of his hand.

“You have the most magnificent arse,” Mr Davenport was breathless in his admiration. Tyler smiled inwardly: he had hooked another one.

He didn’t spank him hard; the arse was so glorious, it was enough for him to pat and preen it; to rub his palm over the smooth cotton of the boy’s tight white underpants and then down his thighs. Then over his strong back to the shoulders. But, yes eventually he did spank the arse, but not in anger; he loved the feeling as his hand connected with Tyler’s firm cheeks; they were meaty, but bouncy to the touch. Tyler was a fit lad, there wasn’t enough spare fat on him to fry a sausage; he was a spanker’s delight.

Mr Davenport’s appetite could not be satisfied; he wanted more. Tyler gave him his phone number, muttering something about “a private session,”, before heading off home with a very sore bum, but pockets bulging with cash.

Mr Davenport couldn’t get Tyler out of his mind, he dreamt of having him in every spanking position imaginable. He must see him again. It was easy to arrange; and Tyler was just as obliging in Mr Davenport’s apartment as at Whacko! Mr Davenport wasn’t really an over-the-knee man; the swishy school cane was his fantasy of choice and he had a fine collection hidden behind the wardrobe in his spare bedroom. Tyler played the stroppy teenager and when Mr Davenport made him pay with his arse Tyler made Mr Davenport pay from this wallet.

Mr Davenport was hooked, he wanted more and more; but with a divorced wife and two children he couldn’t afford it; that’s when he hatched a plan. He had once read a fantasy story in a magazine; why couldn’t he do it in real life?

They say that in life timing is everything: it certainly was for Mr Davenport. He struck lucky. Tyler had been jobless for ages, and now he had no home either. Relationships are complicated and Tyler had just found himself dumped for a younger model. But, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and Mr Davenport was ready to pick up the option.

It was a fiendishly simple plan. Tyler was to work at the sales company Mr Davenport owned. He would be a junior salesman on the staff with a proper salary and when he screwed up; it would be sore-arse time. A fantasy made reality.

In truth, Mr Davenport thought it was a ludicrous idea and was astonished that Tyler signed up. But, it worked perfectly; Tyler had no discipline, could never get to work on time, often drifted home early, stayed out on long lunches and to cap it all, he was a truly abysmal salesman.

And from that day forward Mr Davenport owned Tyler’s arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

 

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The apprentices

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Making the Grade

used drawing paddle hold (16)

 

“Look at these grades. I’ve failed psychology.” Randy Caulfield was despondent.

He pushed the printed transcript across the table to his friend Seth. The nineteen-year-old student studied the paper carefully, as if a careful examination might change the ‘F’ into a pass.

He took a long pull on his iced cola, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I had a place lined up at school and now look at this.” Randy waved the transcript in the air dramatically.

“I’ve got A’s in just about everything else. But, this goddam fail means I can’t go,” Randy felt like weeping. His life was over. Ahead lay forty-five years of dead-end jobs.

“It was the only elective I could get. All the others were full. What good is psychology anyway?” Randy’s bitterness spilled over.

“But it’s only an elective course, does it count?” Seth was trying to be supportive, but he knew it did matter.

At John F. Kennedy Community College you had to pass all your courses, even when your overall grade point average was a pass.

“Do you know,” Randy said, “If I got a bare pass in the psychology, my GPA would still be good enough to take me to university.”

“Who teaches the course?” Seth had the germ of an idea.

“Drake, d’you know him?”

“Yes, I think so. Youngish man, only been here a couple of years,” Seth replied, trying not to let on that he knew more than he was saying.

“Yes, that’s him. A goddam awful teacher, no wonder I never learned anything,” Randy said, and then as an afterthought, “I wonder how many others failed.” He was wondering if he would win an appeal against the grading.

“You should talk to him, this Drake.  Tell him what’s happened. Ask him to pass you,” Seth knew he had to tread carefully.

“Would that work? Would he do it?” Randy doubted it.

“Make an appointment. Go see him. What is there to lose?” Seth drained his cola and stood up to leave.

If the rumours Seth had heard were true, Randy would get his pass; but he would have to pay a price for it.

….

Randy got his appointment to see Drake, but he had to wait until six in the evening. The semester was over and John F. Kennedy Community College was nearly deserted as he made his way to Drake’s office, hidden away at the end of a corridor on the eighth floor of the main building.

As he exited the elevator he saw Mark Cheyne, a fellow psychology student, hurrying down the corridor. He was ashen faced and his eyes shone like hot coals. Randy growled “Watch it!” as Mark pushed him out of the way before disappearing into the elevator.

It was late and the support staff had all gone home. There did not seem to be anyone around, so he walked down the corridor reading name plates until he found: T. E. Drake. Suddenly, overtaken by nerves, Randy hesitated. Something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. Checking that nobody else was in the corridor, the teenager put his ear to the door. He had no clue why he did that, or what he expected to hear. In fact, he heard nothing; there was nothing to hear.

Shaking his head (what a fool he was), he tapped on the door and was greeted by a firm “Come in!”

It was an ordinary office and very modern. The furniture, such of it that there was, was made from light pine. A desk and computer table dominated the small room and there were two ‘bucket type’ chairs for guests. The walls were lined with shelving upon which Drake piled high books and journals. It was about as untidy as any other lecturer’s office Randy had ever visited.

Behind the desk, working at the computer was Drake. Seth had described him well; he was a young man, hardly out of university himself. His wide open face and floppy fair hair gave him the appearance of a much younger person.

He looked up, removed his glasses, and peered at Randy.

“And you are?” Drake feigned not to know the nineteen-year-old student he had failed to teach all semester, but he knew very well who he was. And, he knew why he was here.

“I’m Randy Caulfield,” he began, before adding ‘Sir,” as if he were back at Junior High.

Drake liked that. “Sir!” Yes, he thought, this boy had the correct attitude.

“And why are you here?”

Randy launched into a prepared speech about his grade, it being an elective course, how he was an A-student and how his future would be ruined if he could not take his place at the university.

Drake listened impassively. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted a little fun first.

“Why should I give students grades they do not deserve?”

Randy had no coherent answer to that, so just mumbled about his lost university place.

Drake stood up from his computer and walked around his desk so that he was next to Randy.

“It is important that I treat all my students in the same way, he intoned pompously, recalling in his mind Mark Cheyne’s visit to his office not ten minutes previously.

“Yes, sir … I know … but …” Randy tailed off.

There he went again: “Sir.”

Drake paced his office. “You are a lazy student Caulfield and you cannot be allowed to get away with it!” He was firm and determined to make the teenager suffer.

Randy did not think himself lazy, his A-grades in other course proved that. He was a chemist and one day would distinguish himself in the science. He was a good student, but he was just was not cut out for psychology.

He should tell Drake this, he thought, but he could not find the words. Disheartened by his wasted journey, he prepared to leave.

Startled that he might lose a golden opportunity, Drake said, “No, don’t go yet. There might be something I can do for you.”

Puzzled, Randy swung round to face the lecturer.

“You are lazy and you must be taught a lesson. But, I do not want to destroy what might prove to be a promising career. You can be punished in some other way.”

Drake’s words came easily. He had said the same, or something very similar, to many students already that day. He had rehearsed them well and in his own mind what he was about to propose was reasonableness itself.

“If you behaved like this in High School, you would be sent to the principal’s office, would you not.”

Randy was not so sure. “Maybe. I guess,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘maybe’ about it,” Drake’s certainty was not to be questioned.

Randy stood silent. What exactly was happening here?

“And the principal would more than likely give you swats with one of these,” and Drake opened a cupboard door, reached in and took out a spanking paddle.

Randy’s face glowed red with embarrassment. Drake wanted to paddle him.

“So what do you say? If you take a licking and atone for your laziness, I will raise your grade to a pass.” Drake smacked the paddle down into the palm of his hand and stared intently at the teenager as he waited for Randy to respond.

Randy could not take his eyes off the wood Drake wanted to use to beat his ass. It was a typical school paddle, about fifteen inches long and five wide. It was maybe a half an inch thick. Some joker had written ‘Board of Education’ on one side of the blade.

Randy was breathless. Was the man serious? Could he actually do this? Was it even legal?

The boy said none of this aloud, but Drake could read his thoughts.

“It is the solution. You know it is Randy.” This was the first time the man had ever called him by his first name.

“Come. Let’s get this over with,” Drake said as he moved one of the bucket chairs into the centre of the room.

Randy was in a trance. Later when he recounted his story to Seth (who knew all about Drake’s little game) there were many parts of the action he could not remember.

“Bend over the chair, Randy.”

He meekly did as he was told and bent down. It was a small chair with a low back. Drake had Randy move back a bit, using the paddle against his legs and inner thighs to guide him to spread his legs until they were about shoulder-width apart.  Then Drake tugged at Randy’s jeans until they stretched across his buttocks like a second skin.

Then, Swat! The first one landed in the center of his backside. Randy let out a loud yelp and hung on for dear life as he furiously stamped his feet trying to get the sting out of his poor butt.

Drake did not mind if Randy kicked about, as long as he stayed in position.

Randy was gasping for breath as if he would never end off gasping, then he clenched his teeth to try to stop yelling again as swat number two connected. The paddle stung like fire and he was surprised how loud a sound it made when it landed across his bent-over behind. All he could say was Ow, ow, ow!!! again and again.

After two dozen swats had connected it was over. Randy let go of the chair and jumped up and down, hollering in pain, his hands frantically trying to soothe the unquenchable heat burning every square inch of his poor butt. His eyes were welled up with tears but he did not care. He was way past the point of being embarrassed about tears or about the show he was putting on as he tried to stop the burn. After a minute or so of carrying on, he stopped dancing up and down and just stood still and rubbed.

Drake stood there paddle in hand just watching Randy with a look of satisfaction on his face that seemed to say: job well done.

And, it was a job well done. Drake had satisfied himself. He could with a clear conscience delete Randy’s failed grade and replace it with a pass.

Randy heard the news in silence. He had regained control of his breathing and the red heat in his throbbing buttocks was cooling.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he tramped out of the office; his place at the university saved.

At the end of the corridor the elevator opened and out stepped Phil King, another psychology student.

“Good luck!” Randy said to the puzzled classmate before pressing the button for the lobby.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Put Back Into Short Trousers

z used uniform short shorts (56)

 

Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.

The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.

The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”

The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”

Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.

“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.

“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”

Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.

“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.

“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”

“Making him wear short trousers?”

“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”

Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.

“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”

Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”

“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”

Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”

“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”

The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.

Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”

They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.

Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”

Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.

“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”

Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.

Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.

And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.

The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.

But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.

It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.

Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.

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

With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.

His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.

Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.

If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.

Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.

The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.

The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.

So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

This story was first published in September 2015

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Waiting for Robert

Tyrone misses curfew

The hotel room

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com