First thing in the morning

new story 2

z used bed pants (1)

I woke this morning with a bit of a thick head. I’d had too much beer last night watching football on the telly. Manchester United, as if that’s relevant. Champions League. At home. They lost. Ha! Ha! When I’ve had a skin-full I get this dream and I wake up with a raging hard on. Of course, I have to toss one off, but it doesn’t do much good. I just get another stiffy and before I know it an hour’s gone by.

There’s a man in our street, I see him in the morning pass by our house. He’s on his way to the station. I call him Mr Black, because he’s always dressed in a dark suit. He carries a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. I sometimes imagine him in a bowler hat, although people don’t wear them anymore. I think he’s something in the City. A manager somewhere.

He’s old. Not real old; about as old as my dad I suppose. But that’s old enough. I like to imagine that I work at the same place as Mr Black and he’s my boss. Not in the office, I’m not clever enough to work in an office. We’re somewhere else, the stores or warehouse maybe. Mr Black is the big boss, not just the stores’ manager.

He’s come down from his office to find me. And he’s not happy. I’ve been bad. Not real bad, I haven’t been in a fight or stolen something. I’ve been late back from dinner hour, again. Or, I’ve been late into work in the morning too many times. Or, maybe I’ve been caught having a crafty fag in the bogs during the afternoon.

He calls me out. Everyone can see what’s happening. He’s in the middle of the shop floor (or whatever) and he’s standing there with his finger crooked and he signals for me to come towards him. I get all nervous, because I know I’ve been a naughty boy.

He has a moan about my lateness and I go “Yes sir. No sir. Sorry sir,” like you do, but I don’t really mean it. Then he says, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He finds a chair and he puts in down in the middle of the floor. Of course, everyone’s stopped working by now. They want to see the fun. And Mr Black sits down. He’s quite a size is Mr Black. He’s way taller than me and really broad at the shoulders. He’s not fat, but he does have a bit of a belly on him. But, too me at least, he looks really powerful.

He makes me stand right in front of him. “Hands on head,” he commands. I put my fingers together and do as I am told. I’m like a naughty boy at primary school. He doesn’t say anything, he just takes hold of the belt keeping up my jeans and he struggles a bit to get the buckle undone. He can’t quite work out how it fastens. I could give him a hand, but I like it more when someone else does it. At last he gets the belt undone. In my dream I’m getting turned on by this, especially when he takes that button on the waistband and opens it. Slowly, he is never in a rush, he slips down the zipper of my fly.

The front of my jeans are open and I feel a little breeze. Somewhere close by there must be a window open. The jeans are loose and begin to trickle down over my bum. I don’t have anything in the pockets so they aren’t heavy enough to slip down my legs. So, Mr Black grips each side of the waist and roughly pulls them down and they end up bunched over my trainers.

I am wearing snug-fitting glowing white Y-front underpants. I don’t have any in real life, but they are always in my dreams. Don’t ask me why. No one my age would ever buy them (although often I quite fancy them when I’m in Marks & Spencer’s with Mum).

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Black says. He is very quiet. He just says it, he’s not like some sergeant-major on a parade ground. He doesn’t bark out orders. With the jeans at my ankles I have to shuffle about like a penguin until I am standing just to the right of Mr Black. He’s thighs are strong and he is sitting with his back straight as a ramrod. He parts his knees just a little so he makes a platform for me to go across.

I never make a fuss. I have broken the rules and I must be punished. If Mr Black says I deserve a right good spanking I am not going to argue with him. I feel my heart beating hard under my blue t-shirt. It fits a bit too well and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Black sees my chest going in and out. I swipe the back of my hand across my nose. I don’t know why I do this, I am not about to sneeze or (God help us!) cry, so it must just be nerves or something.

I look down at Mr Black’s lap and I lean forward slowly. I rest my hands on his left thigh and ease myself down so that my stomach rests across him. Then, I stretch my arms out in front of me. The chair is quite tall but I can rest the palms of my hands on the floor. I have a close-up view of the old, dirty scratched tiles. I move my head a bit so I can see under the chair. There are my legs, dangling so that my toes hover just off the ground. My jeans cover my shoes and I can read words on the label: 30W 30L.

I wait. I am meek and submissive. Every pair of eyes in the storeroom are on me and I am loving it. I feel Mr Black take hold of my t-shirt and pull it up my back. He takes it as far as possible so it is almost at my neck. I shudder and it’s not because of the draught. In my dream I have a bird’s eye view. I can see myself draped over Mr Black’s knees. My head is low and my body is at an angle so my bum rests over his right thigh. My cock and balls are squashed against his leg. I have quite a nice bum (in real life, as well) and my waist is firm. The cheeks are round and tight. They’re small enough for Mr Black to cover a whole one with his hand. He is testing this out now. He caresses first the left and then the right buttock, smoothing down the cotton of my underpants as he goes. For good measure, he then rubs the back of my bare thighs. I squeal with pleasure.

He is ready now. He lifts his hand away from my bum a metre or so and then cracks his palm into the middle of my right cheek. The smack! as it connects is loud and sends an echo across the storeroom. I feel it, but to be honest it doesn’t hurt much. He spanks me on the other cheek. He always starts slowly. I suppose he is warming himself up (and of course warming me up). He keeps up a slow tempo and I stare down at the ground, occasionally I will look under the chair at my feet. They are still dangling. I am not wriggling or writhing or anything like that; there is no need to. I’m not one of those who thinks he has to put on a bit of a show while he’s being spanked. I don’t go in for the “ooh, ahhhs” that some people do. If it genuinely hurts, I’ll soon let you know.

Mr Black ups the rhythm and now he is hammering his hand all over my buttocks at great pace. That does hurt and I find myself twisting and turning over his knee. He presses his left hand into my shoulder blades to keep me a bit steady. I love being pinned down. He whacks me like this for a minute or so. I lose sense of time when I’m spanked. I suppose it doesn’t go on for too long. Just until I soil the bedsheet.

Mr Black takes a rest. Maybe his hand is hurting more than my bum. He hasn’t finished though. I wait with great anticipation. I know what’s coming next (it’ll soon be me!). He takes hold of the waistband of my pants and starts to pull. He gets them over my mounds but can’t tug them right down because they are stuck at the front. Without being told, I lift my body off his lap just enough to let him yank them down. He leaves them bunched up at my knees. I hear murmurs of approval from my audience. They have seen just how red my cheeks are. They might not hurt much but they do show the signs of a sound spanking.

I am now naked from my neck to my knees. I continue to stare down at the floor. Mr Black puts his left arm around my waist and gathers my body closer to him. Then he wallops my arse. He puts all his strength into it and his palm crashes in and out of my flesh so quickly the echoes around the room sound like machinegun fire. This does hurt. I am truly and genuinely in pain. It is good that Mr Black has a firm grip on me because at this point I could try to roll off his knees onto the floor and escape.

I wouldn’t want to do that; I am enjoying this too much. Mr Black only ever spanks me with the palm of his hand. I never get him to use a belt or a brush or slipper. I don’t go in for the cane either. I have no desire to be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best. For me it is as much the humiliation of being spanked in front of my fellow workers on my bare little bottom by an older, powerful man while held down firmly across his knee, that turns me on.

So he keeps whacking me on my bare bum and he’s covered all there is of it, from the top of the curves, over the mounds themselves and into the underside. I am well and truly toasted, so then he starts on the back of my thighs. That’s agony. I don’t know why being spanked on the thighs hurts more than the bum; is it something about nerve ends, or maybe there’s not so much padding there. I suppose I should Google it.

Now, my knees are buckling and my legs are kicking about. I almost lose my jeans but they are caught up in my trainers so they aren’t going anywhere. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

It’s about this time that I wake up with a boner so stiff it looks like there’s a tentpole in my duvet. Remember how that used to feel? Oh to be nineteen again, eh? Well I think that’s more or less where you came in. Me tossing myself off. Telling you this story has set me off again, so I’m going to lay back here and have another one. I know it will make me late for work again – hey, ho, what a pity Mr Black isn’t pacing up an down his office waiting for me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The hotel room

The Post Office Thief

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The students’ landlord

new story 2

z used solo jeans and jumper by peter samuelson

When Roderick was given a list of rules with his rent book by the landlord at his new university digs he didn’t bother to read them. He was soon to regret this.

Nobody would accuse Roderick of being a brilliant scholar but he was a diligent worker. He attended all his lectures and tutorials; he spent hours each day in the library and he handed his essays in on time. He would graduate comfortably and his professors wished him well for the future.

He had a place at Mr Higginbottom’s boarding house where he kept his room clean, never missed a meal time and was unfailingly polite to his landlord and fellow tenants.

Unlike some of the students who roomed with Mr Higginbottom he was a pleasure to know.

Roderick had been with Mr Higginbottom for about six weeks when one evening he attended a classical music concert at the Free Trade Hall in town: the Brahms Piano Concerto No.2  and Dvorák Symphony No.7 led by the world-renowned conductor, Alphonso Romesco. As is the way with the world-renowned, Romesco had little regard for his audience and he lifted his baton about an hour late. Roderick missed the last bus to his digs.

The night was fresh, summer was turning into autumn and the three mile walk home was not arduous for a young man of twenty years. It was past midnight when he walked through the empty streets of the Brocklehurst suburb where he lived. Curtains in the houses were drawn, lights were off; The Avenue was asleep. Except at number ninety-seven where the porch light glowered.

Roderick thought nothing of this. He had never returned to the house so late, he wasn’t to know this was unusual. He rummaged in his pocket for the door key and let himself in. He was tired and ready for a wash down and to clean his teeth. He had a lecture at nine and looked forward to a good night’s rest.

Inside the house was dark and at once Roderick felt uneasy. Old houses at night could do this to a person. The boards creaked beneath his feet; it seemed to Roderick the noise his feet caused was reverberating around the hallway. “Oh dear,” he thought, “I must be careful, I don’t want to wake anybody.”

As he was a considerate young man, he squatted down and hopping on one leg and then the other, he slipped off his shoes. It was difficult for him to balance but he succeeded without mishap. A little absurdly, he tip-toed towards the staircase, his shoes in his hands. He raised his foot to climb the first step when the hall light blazed. He was blinded for a second and confused.

But not for long.

“Aha! Sneaking in late after curfew!” It was Mr Higginbottom. “Thought I wouldn’t notice.” Roderick blinked heavily. He was not yet used to the glaring light. But more than that, it was the sight of his landlord dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He was a portly figure, a kind man would say he had a double chin, but in fact he had at least four. His hair was unkempt and with closer examination Roderick could have deduced that he had been sleeping in an armchair; he had that dishevelled air about him. He stood a little under six feet tall, and his shoulders were broad. If you could image an oblong shape with a large belly; that would be Mr Higginbottom.

Roderick had of course seen Mr Higginbottom many times before (even in his night clothes) so he not surprised at the sight that greeted him. Not entirely, that is. What did bring the young man up sharply was that in his right hand his landlord held a long, thin whippy cane. He held it gently so that it dangled alongside his leg. It was as if he himself hardly knew it was there.

“Missed curfew,” Mr Higginbottom repeated again. Roderick hardly heard him, he was transfixed by the cane. It was maybe three feet long and looked quite thick. It had a curved handle at one end. Although Roderick had never been on the receiving end of one, he knew it was a typical punishment cane that was in regular use in schools up and down the country. His brow furrowed, his mouth stopped short of gaping.

“You know the rules,” Mr Higginbottom spoke calmly. Roderick could not take his eyes from the cane as it tap, tap, tapped against his landlord’s leg. The young man’s frown deepened. He spoke no words, but his look betrayed his puzzlement.

Mr Higginbottom sighed. He wanted to get this over with so he could be off to bed. He had to be up early to cook breakfasts. “The house rules,” he said, “Curfew is at eleven on a school night,” he looked at his wrist and realising he wore no watch, he blustered, “It’s well past midnight …” he trailed off annoyed that he was unable to cite Roderick’s crime with precision.

“Yes, but,” Roderick was no more articulate than his landlord. Rules? he thought, wracking his brain for an answer to the conundrum he faced. He found none so asked politely, “Please Mr Higginbottom, What rules?”

The landlord liked the boy. He paid his rent assiduously; he never broke the rules (until now) and was in all respects the perfect lodger. Unlike Smythe in room seven he never gave a moment’s trouble.

“You signed an agreement to abide by the rules,” Mr Higginbottom explained. “When you first came to live here.”

Roderick blushed, the penny had dropped. The rules. Yes, he remembered. There were two pages of closely typed script. He had signed it, it was true. “Silly,” his inner voice told him, “You didn’t read them.”

He repeated the gist of those words aloud to his landlord, “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Higginbottom, but I never read them. I never realised.”

Mr Higginbottom stared at the young man. Roderick’s bright, open freckled face was the picture of innocence. The landlord had long ago formed an opinion of him; he was telling the truth.

“The rules state that if you miss a curfew you are to receive corporal punishment.” He looked down at the cane in his hand as if for the first time realising it was there. “A caning,” he added unnecessarily.

Roderick’s jaw did drop this time. “Oh no, please, Mr Higginbottom. I didn’t know.”

The landlord’s own jaw firmed (as much as it could when there were four chins). “The rule is quite clear,” he stated. He felt like some old magistrate somewhere in rural England laying down the law: firm, but fair.

Roderick was bright enough to see where this drama was leading. “But, I won’t do it again, I promise Mr Higginbottom,” he was beginning to plead.

The landlord frowned, the cane tapped against his leg more rapidly. He was thinking. Weighing up his options. It did not take him long to reach a verdict. “I am sure you are true to your word. I do not think you will misbehave in future,” he started on a short speech. Roderick’s hopes were rising. Only to be dashed. “But,” (there was always a “but”) “but, we cannot ignore your past behaviour. We must deal with that.”

Roderick could not quite suppress a wail, “But, Mr Higginbottom, please! I promise I won’t do it again.” He then recounted his evening, the late conductor, the missed bus, the long walk home.

The landlord’s face coloured. He was not used to being argued with. He gripped the cane tightly. “Enough!” he growled, his tone taking Roderick aback a little. “You have broken the rules, you shall be punished. All boys here must obey the rules.” He was becoming agitated, he raised the cane and wobbled it in front of himself. “I cannot make exceptions for one.” He stared at the young man, noticing his face was now almost as red as his ginger hair. “Last week I beat Harrison for a similar offence. It was his first time also.”

Mr Higginbottom stopped speaking. He had said his piece, there was no more to say. He would truck no argument. “Now,” he waved the cane ahead of him, “Come into my sitting room. Let’s get this over with.”

Roderick gazed in amazement, his mind in a spin. The landlord intended to beat him. With a cane. On the bottom. Like a mischievous schoolboy. He had beaten his pal Harrison last week? That was the first Roderick knew of it. What a to-do, he thought. He had broken the rules (albeit unintentionally) and punishment was due. What choice did he have? To refuse would mean what? Eviction almost certainly. Would he be in trouble with the university?

“Come on boy, it’s late as it is,” Mr Higginbottom stood in the doorway, brandishing the cane. With skipping heart, Roderick followed him into the sitting room. It was the first time he had been in there. He took a moment to find his bearings. It was a large room, dominated by old, but good quality furniture. A bookcase, with few actual books, ran along one side of the room. Another was dominated by an open and now extinguished fire. A Chesterfield couch was against the far wall. In the middle of the room there were two heavy, well-padded armchairs and a beaten wooden low table. A sideboard was pushed into a space below a bay window.

Roderick stood bemused and watched as Mr Higginbottom manhandled one of the armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Roderick was no expert on such matters but he read his landlord’s intentions. It was a large chair, but its back was relatively low. Even from a distance the young man could see it was the perfect height for his landlord’s purpose.

“Stand by the chair,” Mr Higginbottom pointed his cane in case there was any doubts which one he meant. Roderick, by now resigned to his fate, shuffled forward and stood a pace or two behind it. He couldn’t get his heartbeat to slow. His head was buzzing. The scene was unreal. Would he awaken at any moment to discover it was all a very strange dream?

“Closer boy,” his landlord barked, his impatience evident. Roderick snapped out of his thoughts. He looked at the chair and then at his feet, realising immediately that he had halted at too far a distance from the chair. He shuffled a pace forward and waited in trepidation.

“Bend over.” It was a clear command. Mr Higginbottom had his rituals and he expected them to be respected. Roderick looked down at the chair, unsure of his next move. Bend over? What did that mean exactly. Well, he was bright enough to understand that it meant lean over the back of the chair, but then what? Where did the arms and hands go? What about his head?

“Pah!” Mr Higginbottom recognised a novice when he saw one; but that didn’t stop him being irritated. “Bend over, grip the cushion in front of you. Legs apart. Head low. Bottom high.” They were perfect instructions and Roderick was grateful to receive them. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together for no apparent reason and in one smooth, athletic movement he dived forward. Within seconds he had positioned himself to his landlord’s satisfaction.

Mr Higginbottom wheezed. He couldn’t help it. He found he always did this at the moment one of his charges presented their buttocks to him for punishment. It would soon pass. He took time to review the situation. Roderick was submissive, waiting apprehensively, but in control. He would take his punishment like the honourable chap he was. His head was low and his bottom high. It was a tight bum, filling out a pair of denim jeans splendidly. His waist was slim and the cheeks round. The young man was wearing a green woollen sweater and Mr Higginbottom took hold of the end and curled it up so that an expanse of Roderick’s shirt was visible. Then he tugged the tail of that so it was clear of the waistband of the tight jeans, exposing an inch or two of bare, hairless flesh. Roderick’s hips wriggled, but he settled again without further fuss.

Mr Higginbottom was almost ready. He took a firm grip of the cane and flexed it between his hands. It was a stout rod, but also very whippy. He took its measure, even though he had used it many times previously and knew its capabilities. Then (because he liked the sound that it made, and he hoped it intimidated his boys) he swiped it through the empty air. It made a fine swooshing sound as it went.

Roderick’s buttocks clenched at that sound. He had not asked them to do this, it was simply a natural reflex. They were preparing to protect themselves for the onslaught ahead. “Relax, boy, relax,” Mr Higginbottom said as he gently tapped the cane across the centre of the student’s backside. Naturally, this made the cheeks tense even more. The already trim, tight buttocks now had the consistency of a hard rubber ball.

Mr Higginbottom allowed himself a smile. There was nothing he could do about this. He took his aim, drew the cane away and high and thwacked it down with great force across Roderick’s bum. A thin white line was immediately embossed into the tight denim. Roderick who had shut his teeth in preparation for the pain opened them wide, allowing a gasp of air to escape at top speed. He shook his head gently, but otherwise gave no reaction. It was his first ever stroke of the cane and he took it rather well.

Mr Higginbottom took aim once more. This time a little to the under-cheek. The cut it delivered would reignite when Roderick sat down at the breakfast table. Two down and four more to go. The landlord had his rules and punishments for those who broke them, but he was not a monster. He didn’t want to flog his charges with a frenzy. His duty was to help these young men into adulthood. It was a rocky journey and they would make mistakes along the way. His guidance would help them to the straight-and-narrow path.

He third stroke landed on top of the first. Roderick felt that one, he managed to stifle a yell, but his knees buckled and his legs stamped up and down. Mr Higginbottom paused and admired his own prowess. A job well done, young Roderick would never again sign a document without first reading its contents.

Roderick’s heart had not settled, now his temples throbbed and his eyes watered. He had absolutely no control over his body and it scared him. His bottom was sore but (he supposed) it might be worse. He had no idea what a caning should feel like; how much distress should he be in? It hurt terribly when the cane connected with his stretched bottom and for a second the agony was almost intolerable, sending shockwaves up and down his legs. But (and this surprised him) the intense pain subsided almost immediately into a pounding throb, only to be set off again when the next stroke cut him.

Mr Higginbottom delivered six strokes. It wasn’t “six-of-the-best” – he always kept something in reserve during a boy’s first caning. He needed some threat over them against future bad behaviour. The true recidivists, those who constantly broke the rules, would in time find themselves over the chair, bum held high with their trousers at their ankles and pants snagged at the knees. But, Mr Higginbottom was certain he would never again get such a close-up view of Roderick’s bottom.

“Up,” it was a curt command and one that Roderick was pleased to obey. He pulled himself to his feet; his bum hurt terribly, but even as he waited to be dismissed to his bedroom the worst of it was subsiding. The aching throb was dissolving and soon it would be a warm glow. Later, in the privacy of his room he would inspect the damage and be startled by the sight of six clear stripes running in parallel across his buttocks. They were dark red and when he touched his bottom gingerly it felt like corrugated carboard. He pulled on his pyjamas and climbed into bed. The pain was nearly gone but as he lay in the dark he traced his index figure along the marks, enjoying the sensation it caused reigniting the ache.

 

Picture credit: Peter Samuelson

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Enhanced community training

new story 2

zused paddle jeans table (1)

Jack made his way through the student union bar, careful not to spill a drop from the two pint of beers he carried; the carpet beneath his feet was sticky enough. He made it unscathed to the table occupied by his best pal Al. He sat, gulped down a throatful of lager, and delved into his jacket pocket, pulling out a letter he had recently received.

“It’s from the Registrars’ Office,”  he unfolded three pages and glanced through the top one as if to remind himself what he it said. “I’ve been put on E.C.T.”

Al grinned and swigged his own beer. “Enhanced Community Training! Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

“You know about this stuff then?” Jack was still reading the letter.

Al wrinkled his nose, suppressing further laughter. E.C.T was serious. Life was about to get very unpleasant indeed for his friend. An uneasy silence fell between them. Al was bursting to hear more, but he knew he would have to be patient. Jack would tell his story in his own time.

The glasses were nearly empty when Jack started. “I was on the Dean’s list three times. Mostly poor grades, but then there was that time when we all got high and ran round the halls naked.” He spoke clearly, without emotion, as if he were reading the nine o’clock news on television. “Now, they caught me ducking lectures.” He peered at the letter in his hand. “Enhanced Community Training; what’s that all about then?”

Al reached across the table, being careful not to catch his sleeve in the beer spills, and took the letter. “It’s that new scheme, where they team you up with some granddad type who is supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow.” He saw Jack’s puzzled expression. “Dan was put in it last semester. His arse is still sore,” suddenly he felt his face redden and he quickly swallowed more beer.

“What are you talking about?” Jack couldn’t hide his irritation. His arse is still sore.

“Yeah,” Al composed himself. “You have to go to granddad and show you can behave yourself and if you don’t,” his face blushed scarlet. “Well, you know …” he gulped beer to hide his embarrassment, “you get spanked.”

“Spanked! Yeah, Ha! Ha! Ha!,” Jack retorted cynically, “As if.”

Al handed him back the letter, “Read these terms and conditions, mate,” he showed him the densely-typed pages. “It’s all in there.”

Jack snatched them and held them close to his face. One heading “Corporal Punishment” suddenly shone out like a beacon. Colour drained from his face. “Is this even legal?” he gasped.

“You have to do it. You don’t and the uni. Will kick you out on your ear. Times they are a’changing, my friend,” Al sighed as he collected Jack’s glass and made his way to the bar.

….

Major T. E. V. Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) sipped thoughtfully at his whisky, a sheaf of computer-generated reports lay scattered on the table. The label on the buff manila folder read JOHN (JACK) HILL. Maj Manwaring-Robertson had read every page three times already, he believed in doing his homework thoroughly. The boy was twenty years old and really should know better, he thought. He suppressed a grin, “Running naked through the halls of residences,” he said aloud, although there was nobody there to hear him. “That’s a new one on me.” He leaned across to the whisky bottle and splashed a generous measure into his glass, “Must be some sort of guy-thing.” The rest of the report was more standard fare: poor grades, failed examinations, truanting from lectures, assignment deadlines missed. He had been reprimanded often; but was a serial reoffender. He was unresponsive to university discipline.

The Major leaned back in his horsehair armchair and stared towards the ceiling. Jack was not a wicked lad, he mused, he could be saved. There was still time for him to turn his life around. Apart from the nude athletics, he was no different from the others he had helped. That was the trouble with the young these days, they lacked guidance. They had no boundaries, they had never been taught right from wrong. He blamed the parents. And the schools. The Church had a lot to answer for as well. A good dose of Military Service might sort them out. Well, things were changing (thank the Lord!) and until all young men were put in uniform they would have to make do with Enhanced Community Training.

The Major closed his eyes. He had been set a difficult task, but he was up to it. It was his duty to respond to the needs of society. Hill needed disciplining and the Major was just the man to administer it. He knew this for a fact; he had a proven track record. He fancied that he might be one of the stars of Brocklehurst University’s Enhanced Community Training scheme.

Less than three months ago there had been that youngster Dan; what a bumptious individual he had been. Like all teenagers really, the Major supposed, smug, self-centred, thought the world revolved around him. He was soon taught a lesson.

It started one cold, wet November evening. It wasn’t quite Bonfire Night but the noise from a distant firework party invaded the house. It was a large, detached home, far too big for the Major to live in alone. The Avenue was full of homes shielded from prying eyes by tall hedges or walls. Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) had all the solitude he could desire. It was so well hidden that Dan had difficulty finding it on his first visit and had arrived considerably late.

“Not an auspicious start,” the Major snarled as Dan stood dumbfounded, unsure of the meaning of the word. The Major was a tall, thick set man, broadening at the waist but he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His military presence had not diminished since his army days. His slicked back hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hill,” he growled, his stare burning into the student’s soul. The miserable boy shuddered, “Yes, sir,” in reply. He had only just met the man and was already terrified.

The Major was a man of few words and those he did speak were usually commands. “You know why you have been sent here,” he thundered. Dan’s terror had not abated, fearful and confused he remained silent.

“Pah!” the Major exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, boy!”

Dan blushed to his roots, hopping from foot to foot in his confusion. What was he supposed to say? “Pah!” the Major  blasted again, air whistling through half-closed teeth. He then listed all Dan’s faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” the Major clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.”

Dan’s jaw dropped and his face blanched as he watched the aging military gentleman stride across the room. It was sizeable, but had little furniture. Army life had taught the Major to live without luxuries. There was a small table, a couple of old, dusty horsehair armchairs and a cracked leather Chesterfield couch. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom.

The Major paused when he reached the far wall. Dan swallowed hard. Only now had he noticed what was hanging from a hook. It was a block of wood. Dan was puzzled, it looked like something his mother used in her kitchen to chop vegetables. The Major reached up and in one smooth movement fetched it down and gripped it tightly. Close up it looked like a miniature cricket bat. The Major pointed it at Dan, showing it as if it were a religious offering.

“We must deal with your misbehaviour over this past year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he boomed.

The Major glared at Dan not trying to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on the table. “There, that’ll do.” In the early days of E.C.T. the Major had expected resistance. Young men were unused to discipline and the concept of punishment was totally alien. But without exception they had been submissive. Perhaps, it was the Major’s military baring, or maybe, he thought, deep down inside them they just knew they needed this. They could not travel into adulthood without a roadmap. Please, they seemed to be saying, tell me what is expected, how I should behave. What is the difference between right and wrong? And, when I get it wrong, help me.

The Major was no intellectual, he never delved into the consciousness of the students he was asked to train. There were rules, they were broken, there were set punishments, they were administered. Life could be as simple as that.

So, he knew Dan would submit to his command. The nineteen-year-old knew why he had been sent to him. Actions had consequences.

Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) nodded his flushed face towards the table. “There,” he barked. The Major was incapable of speaking quietly. Dan, already pale, turned a ghostly white as the enormity of situation dawned. Never in his whole life had he been close to something like this. Who among his family or at his school would have even thought to spank his backside hard; no matter how serious his misbehaviour. This was indeed uncharted territory.

“Go to the table and bend over,” the Major waved his wooden paddle menacingly. Dan, on automatic pilot, shuffled forward. The table was low and he quite tall so he towered above it. “How exactly should this be done?” an inner voice asked him. The Major had seen this all before. Of course, a teenager sent to live under his authority had no idea how to present himself for a spanking. The basics were simple enough: jut out your backside and let an older man whack it with a paddle, slipper, belt, cane or what-not.

“You should bend forward, rest your elbows on the table. Spread your legs, arch your back and lift your bottom high.” All done with military precision. In this way Dan would present his bottom at the perfect angle to receive the Major’s paddle.

In silence, but with heart thudding, Dan shuffled forward. His instructions had been clear. Later in bed nursing his battered buttocks the teenager would puzzle over his own composure. What in the world had compelled him to obey? He could have turned on his heels, rushed out the house and been in time to catch the last bus back to the university. He did none of these things. Meekly, he took a deep breath and assumed the position, forearms on the table, head low, bottom high, feet apart. His already tight denim jeans stretched further across his buttocks and dug into the crack between his parted cheeks.

The Major tapped the paddle into the open palm of his left hand and watched passively as his victim prepared himself. Dan was a lean boy, his firm and muscular chest clearly outlined by his white t-shirt (why was it, the Major pondered that youngsters always wore t-shirts no matter how cold the weather?) The teenager’s hair was short and dark and already he had a high forehead; the first signs of premature balding. But it wasn’t Dan’s head that concerned the Major. He turned his attention to the other end. He stood close to the boy’s right side and gently caressed his wooden paddle across the fleshiest part of the rather pert buttocks. The Major knew Dan’s jeans, which were nearly new, would offer considerable protection against the paddle. He knew a bare-bottomed beating would be more severe, but the Major was a military tactician; he must not start with a thrashing across naked haunches. That might come at a later date, it was a threat to hold over the boy if he failed to improve his behaviour.

Dan felt the heavy weight of the paddle rest against his left buttock, the Major raised the wood some distance in the air, before pausing (for dramatic effect) and walloping it down against stretched denim with terrific force.  It hurt. A lot. Dan, unused to being spanked shuddered, his feet slipped on the carpet and it took a tremendous effort to stay steady. The Major noted with satisfaction how the imprint of the paddle blade was embedded in the soft stretched denim.

Encouraged, he flogged another three swats into Dan’s bum so both buttocks were toasted.

Dan raised his head in shock, his eyes popped and he swayed from the neck, his head neighing from side to side. He didn’t call out, the burning sensation under his jeans was intensifying, but he was not in agony. Whack, whack, whack. Three cracks like machinegun fire, all landing across the undercurves, made him gasp. His temples throbbed as madly as his bum, he bit down on his lower lip.

The paddle pounded the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Dan wriggled. He writhed. He bucked. He even kicked. The Major held him down forcibly across the shoulders and continued to toast the teenager’s rear end. The Major lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The Major rested the paddle on the table beside the distressed student. Dan wheezed. He had no experience of these things, but instinctively he knew this had been an exemplary spanking. Dan was still, getting his breath back; regaining his composure.  He didn’t notice the Major caress his stretched buttocks. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered bottom just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Dan whinnied like a horse. He had never before experienced such light-headedness. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. He stood, unsteady on his feet, and on command and as if floating on air, he ascended the stairs to his room.

Picture credit: TPLF Productions

 

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The broken window

At the girls’ showers

Summer holiday camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

new story 2

z used school office longs cane touch toes sting

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work.  His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Your last chance

new story 2

z used drawing face schoolboy Hot (1)

You sit alone in the sixth-form common room. Sun beams shine in your eyes magnified by the glass in the closed window but you can’t be bothered to move. The cushion on your “easy chair” is misshapen, one of the elasticated slates holding it in place is broken. You slump down in it and survey the room. At least half of the chairs are in some state of disrepair. A Formica-topped table is worn and chipped. A folded up page of the Daily Mirror, wedged under one leg keeps it from wobbling. The battered tea urn stands by a sink full of unwashed mugs. The rubbish bin overflows. Nothing changes in that room.

You stare at the clock on the wall. You have seen it many times. You know like a pub clock it is set a few minutes fast, an failed confidence trick to induce pupils to get to lessons on time. The words “London County Council” are engraved in large black letters across the white face. A successful deterrent against theft. It is almost four o’clock; nearly time for your appointment.

You hold a copy of George in your hand. Twenty-four pages of A4 Roneo’d paper held together by two staples. There is still a faint whiff of methylated spirits on it. The illegal school magazine; published this morning. One hundred and twenty copies distributed – free of charge. You know it will cost you three weeks wages from your Saturday job at Freeman, Hardy and Willis. You think it is worth it.

You flick through the pages; past the jokes and cartoons, through the short stories and “investigative journalism” to land at the poems. Your poem. Three verses, twenty-four lines. You don’t read it again, there is no need as you know the words off by heart. A poem? It is not poetry, more like doggerel. You don’t care. It has your initials on it; people know who wrote it. That is the point.

You think of Miss Lowenstein, the fearsome old battle-axe. You know she has been in Mr Henderson’s ear the whole day. “Something must be done. He cannot be allowed to get away with this,” she has been saying. Or something quite similar. No one at the school likes Miss Lowenstein. She really is an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’ve ever seen; hair pulled back tightly in a bun, buck teeth, blotted skin and a gammy leg, courtesy of childhood polio.

You had her for English since the fourth year. In her first class she says she is a tough disciplinarian and calls herself a “martinet” and when no one can tell her what that word means she makes you look it up in the dictionary. She sets herself apart from the other women teachers; no way can you call her “miss”; it’s “ma’am.” She has a mean streak and is a bully and vindictive. You are counting on that. Your verse doesn’t name her, but everyone knows who you mean by the “Old Crow.”

You have to go see Mr Henderson in his office at four. He’s head of Upper School. You don’t see much of him usually; your comprehensive school has about 1,600 pupils, it’s like a factory. Mr Henderson is in charge of discipline. You think the Old Crow wants him to cane you for your insolence. You wring your copy of George in your hands, twisting it into a cylinder. Yes, you think to yourself. You, eighteen years old, a prefect, just about to leave school for ever about to get the cane. God! You hope so!

You don’t know when you first started dreaming of corporal punishment. You think you have been fascinated by this forever. Sometimes you go over someone’s knee (you’re not sure whose but preferably someone big and strong). Mostly, you are in the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best from a whippy, curve handled rattan cane. You are in an elite public boarding school which is a world away from the inner city comprehensive you go to. In real life, you have never been caned, not even spanked, in your life. It is, you reckon, now or never. Your last chance.

The hand on the clock is moving too slowly. You climb out of the broken chair and pace the room. You pause by the door, your ears prick up, you listen for sounds in the corridor outside. You hear none, but to be safe you inch open the door and peek outside. You confirm you are alone. You walk back into the room, your heart beats fast. You approach the chair you were sitting on, then stand behind it. You close your eyes, a headmaster with an aged academic gown across his shoulders and a battered mortar-board cap on his head is swishing a cane through the air. He leans forward, taps the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Bend over, Crosby!” he intones. In the sixth-form common room you lean forward and stretch over the chair. You grasp the cheap foam filled cushion and spread your legs. You keep your bottom high and your head low. The headmaster lays the first swipe across your meaty buttocks.

When the six-of-the-best is over, you rise to your feet. You are breathless and your cock is twitching. The fantasy is great and you hope Mr Henderson has a big armchair waiting for you. It is hot but you don’t open the window; you find your blazer and climb into it. It is an ordinary black jacket with the school crest on the pocket; it’s nothing like the green and yellow ones the boys at the grammar school wear. You do up all three buttons and then pull at your necktie. Boys at the school ever do up their ties, but you want to look the part. The submissive schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. Something exciting is happening to you but you can’t find the words to describe it.

The minute-hand on the clock judders to twelve. It is time. Mr Henderson’s room is along the corridor outside the sixth-form common room. In your dreams there is always a long walk to the study and you go through a cobbled quadrangle into a building with ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The passageway is lined with oak doors. Your real school is a concrete-and-glass monstrosity. The corridor has grey, scratched plastic floor tiles. Each door is constructed with some new-fangled artificial material. You could be at the offices of the municipal council.

You stop outside Mr Henderson’s door. You read his name typewritten on a card stuck on with Sellotape. You check your tie, pull at the hems of your blazer and check the shine on your shoes. You are wearing fashionable wet-look slip-ons with a faux silver buckles. You bought them at a discount at the shop where you work. In your mind you are at St, Alphonso’s, a fine public school for the sons of gentlemen. The time is about sixty years ago. You knock on the door. There is a faint noise from within that sounds like, “Come in,” so you press down on the door handle and push.

You are surprised to see Miss Lowenstein there. It heartens you. She is determined to make sure you get your caning and she is personally going to witness it. You have never been in the room before. It is very small. You stand as best you can in front of his tiny desk. Unlike those in your imagination it is small, functional and clearly not built from walnut. It is in a mess and piled high with files and official documents. He sits in a wooden armchair and there are two plastic chairs, purloined at some time from a classroom, in front of the desk. You see a metal filing cabinet in a corner and there are some metal shelves screwed to walls. And that is it. You see no stuffed armchairs, no ancient Chesterfield couch, no open fire, no cabinet of sports trophies, no packed bookcases with leather-bound volumes and most disappointingly of all, no umbrella stand in the corner with three or four crook-handled canes of varying thicknesses dangling from it.

You see this is not a headmaster’s study, it is the office of a middle manager. Miss Lowenstein moves to one side of you and is now out of your eyeline. Your disappointment grows when you look at Mr Henderson. You see no academic gown or cap only a middle-aged man with a beer gut man in a scruffy shirt and plain tie. His beige trousers were purchased at a cheap chain store many years ago.

You know your school has not abolished corporal punishment, but no one can remember the last time a boy was caned. That has always been a disappointment to you. You hear at the grammar the cane is swished through the air every day by enthusiastic schoolmasters. If you were a boy there you could be caned as often as you wished – you know smoking cigarettes is a caning offence. You would be on forty a day.

Now you realise your cunning plan is about to come to nothing. Mr Henderson probably doesn’t believe in the cane. He has only summoned you for a ticking off. You think maybe he will make you write a letter of apology to the Old Crow.

Mr Henderson doesn’t quite know what to say. He calls you “Crombie,” which isn’t quite your name. He mumbles something about how awful you have been. He says your behaviour is “ugly” and you suppress a laugh, thinking that word perfectly describes Miss Lowenstein. You tune out, no longer listening. You want to get out of there and go home. You know you can make this into a fantasy when you are in your bedroom. You hear words but they seem to be coming from a long way off as if drifting on the wind. You realise he has stopped speaking. He is waiting for you to say something. You are unsure if he has asked you a question. You mumble, “Sorry sir”, just to say something.

Then you hear him say, “I am going to cane you.” You wake up at that. You stare at Mr Henderson seeking confirmation that you heard correctly. He is on his feet now and your eyes follow him as he takes the short distance across his office. He reaches the filing cabinet. You have not noticed until now on top of it lies a short stick. You see it is no crook-handled whippy cane beloved of public schoolmasters. It is a  piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long. You watch him pick it up and you see it is rigid and impossible to bend. It looks like a garden cane but you are not sure as there are no gardens anywhere near where you live.

You see Mr Henderson is uncomfortable with the stick in his hand. He looks embarrassed. He does not swish the cane through the air and it is too stiff for him to flex into an arc. You hear him speak the wonderful words you have waited to hear all your life, “Bend over.” Your throat dries. You take another look around the room and you confirm there is nothing to bend over. The desk is piled high with files; the plastic chairs are too low. You look at Mr Henderson for guidance. His face is flushed. The heat in the airless office and the stress of the moment disturbs him. He points the cane at a space in between his desk and the door.

You take his hint. You shuffle a pace and a half. “Face that way,” he says, so that you have your back to the desk. You see Miss Lowenstein hobble away and flop down into Mr Henderson’s chair. She is giving herself the perfect view. Mr Henderson has not given the time-honoured command “touch your toes”. Many times at home you pretend you are one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the old school stories have it. Often you  dress in black blazer and grey trousers and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the hall of your council flat. You bend over touching toes and admire the tight contours of your bum. Your uniform is ordinary and so are you: standing at about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned.

You take a deep breath and bend from the trunk. You keep your knees straight and by parting your feet a little you are able to brush your fingertips against your shiny black shoes. You feel your tight cotton briefs dig into the crack between your cheeks. You know that your buttocks are filling out the back of your trousers and presenting a marvellous target. You wait staring down at the worn industrial-strength carpet. You recall all those times in front of the mirror. You don’t mind how much this hurts, you will shut your teeth and bear it; like the boys in the stories you love so much.

There is no swish as the Head of Upper School makes his preparation. Suddenly there is a dull thud and you realise the cane has landed on your bum. You feel it but there is no agony, no intense pain, not even a throbbing ache. The second and third stoke land. What a disappointment. You hardly feel a thing. You realise Mr Henderson’s heart is not in this. You feel terribly let down.

He gives you six strokes. You have not been caned before and know of no other boy who has. You have nothing to compare it to, except your fantasies. You know that this was not “six-of-the best.” It couldn’t be. You should be howling with pain, jumping up and down from foot to foot and furiously rubbing away at your savaged backside. Instead you remain bending over, hoping that this is not all. Somehow you have learnt the etiquette is for a boy to stay in position, fingertips on toecaps until the master gives permission to stand up. In the stories failure in this respect leads to additional strokes. You would be quite content to get extras, nonetheless you continue to admire the faded blue carpet.

You hear Mr Henderson moving behind you and there is a rattling sound as he replaces the cane on the top of the filing cabinet. Then you hear him say rather absent-mindedly, “You should stand up now.” You do so. Your head feels funny but you think that is because you have been upside down and blood has rushed into your brain. You feel deep disappointment and wonder if your face shows it. If you are nonchalant and make it clear the caning did not hurt would Mr Henderson fly into a rage, sweep the files from the desk, grip you by the neck, hurl you facedown across the desk and proceed to thrash the living daylights out of you?

Clearly not, as Mr Henderson simply says, “You should go now.” You look towards Miss Lowenstein. She has a face like thunder. She too is not impressed by Mr Henderson’s lack of prowess with the cane. She wants to see you clutching your bum in agony and choking back sobs. For the first time in your life, you sympathise with her.

You turn away, open the door and you are in the corridor. In some of the stories you know at this point a boy is rubbing his backside furiously as he rushes back to his study. You do have a sneaky feel of the seat of your trousers, a quick rub with your thumb, but there is no sensation. You can go to the lavs to inspect the damage but you know you will find none. So, you return to the sixth-form common room and collect your vinyl holdall before going home seeing yourself as another victim of the failing comprehensive school system.

 

Picture credit: Hotspur

Other stories you might like:

Rock n Roll Sinner

The Poker School

Uncle Festus

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Waiting for the slipper

new story 2

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (6)

Yes, you’re right, I am bent over a horse in the gym about to get the slipper across my arse. I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t he a bit old for a spanking?” Well, that’s schools for you I suppose. I am eighteen and in my final year, but rules are rules. What can you say?

I’m not bothered. No, really, it won’t hurt much. It’s true that the gym master Mr Cartwright is a big, strong fellow. Not that long ago he was playing rugby for the county. He can pack a punch no doubt about that. But a gym plimsoll, even a size-twelve one, can’t do that much damage.

Well, maybe to a first year. A little one might be overwhelmed by the slipper, but not me. A slipper is no use on a boy my size. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking that Cartwright puts a cane across my backside. That will hurt. And may I remind you that I’m not wearing pants under those shorts.

I do feel a bit foolish, I suppose. Made to bend over the horse and present my backside so a master can pummel it. It could be worse, those shorts could be at my ankles. Actually, no they couldn’t; not at this school anyway. I can’t see, of course, but I think I’ve given Cartwright a pretty good target. It feels like it anyway. The horse is just the right height for me. I fit over it perfectly. My stomach is rested comfortable on the leather top and with my legs spread, my bum is in just right position. You can’t see but my arms are half way down the back of the horse. It’s a bit awkward because there’s nowhere to put them. There’s no handles to grip on to so I’m clasping my hands together.

So, there you see me; head low, bottom high, waiting for the slipper. I don’t resent being spanked. No, honestly. I get that I’m eighteen and supposedly an adult and therefore “too old for this”, but really what’s the school supposed to do? There are rules, everyone understands that. If you break the rules you need to be punished. I get that; otherwise why would people stick to the rules? There are other punishments, I suppose. If I didn’t get the slipper, I reckon they could put me in detention, or make me write an essay or (God forbid) lines.

No, give me the slipper any time. It’s over in seconds and we can all get on with our lives. That is if only Mr Cartwright would get on with it. It won’t hurt much. Really. I’m being honest with you. It’s not some false bravado. If you’ve ever had the slipper you’d agree with me, I’m sure.

“What did I do?” did you ask? “Why am I getting a spanking?” you want to know. Of course, in a school like this you could get corporal punishment for any number of reasons; there are that many rules. Masters here use two main methods: the cane and the slipper. That said, we have a Mr McDonald, a Scotch fellow, who uses a two-tailed leather taws. No, I didn’t know either what that was until I saw one for the first time. It’s a specially made leather strap split into two at the business end. They’re all the rage in schools in Scotland. You get it across the palms of the hand, mostly, but Old McDonald sometimes gives it to you across the bum. It hurts a lot more than the slipper, that’s for sure.

Anyway, I digress. Masters have their own preferences in their weapons of choice. With games masters, physical ed. teachers and the like it’s the plimsoll. It’s a tradition. Now I think about it I suppose its because the slipper is the most easily available implement. There are no shortages of plimsolls in a gym class.

So, it’s to be the slipper for me. What did I do to deserve it? Sorry, I will tell you. It’s a bit embarrassing to be honest. I would ask you to see if you could guess, but we haven’t got all day. I’m late for dinnertime as it is. Here goes: I got caught peeping into the girls’ changing room. I know, I know. You think I’m a perve. But, why do they leave the door ajar if they don’t want us to look inside? I am eighteen you know and the lasses round here don’t exactly give it away, if you get my meaning.

So I got caught. Bang to rights. In the act if you like. Red handed. If I had been there any longer that wouldn’t have been the only part of my body that would have been red. Sorry, that’s a bit crude isn’t it.

As I said the school has rules. I was caught red-handed, and I was red-faced and now I’m going to be red-arsed. That’s the way it is. I’ve got no complaints. I can feel Mr Cartwright standing behind me. He smells a bit sweaty to be honest. I’m ready. Get on with it. It won’t hurt. Really. He’s tapping his plimsol against my bum. Here we go. It won’t hurt. Six whacks with the slipper. Over my shorts. It won’t hurt. Honestly.

He’s lifting the slipper away from my bum.

Crack!

“Ouch!” That hurt!

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The Chamber pot incident

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

When Santa Claus was caned

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com