Peeping Tom

used plimsoll holding (1)

Tom Devenish could not believe his luck. He was coming back from the football pitch where he had completed thirty laps on his own. He did it every day to keep his fitness levels high. He was on the fringes of securing a place in the school football team. He lived for his football. He didn’t know what he would do without it.

The skies were darkening; it would rain soon, probably. Ahead he saw a light. It was coming from the girls’ changing room. Somebody had left the window open. Just a little. Even from a distance he could hear the sound of excited chatter. Excited girls’ chatter.

Tom looked from left to right. Behind him. Ahead of him. The coast was clear. Nobody was about. He would risk it. Absurdly, he tip-toed to the window, in case his normal footfalls could be heard and would attract attention. He pinned his back against the changing room wall and then carefully craned his neck. The gap between window and ledge was tiny; but it was enough.

Oh joy! The school’s netball team had just finished practice. There must have been twenty lower-sixth form girls inside. In various stages of undress. Some in pants and bras; some just in pants and oh glory some completely nude. As naked as the day they were born. Tom saw it all.

Tom was eighteen, but still a virgin. Girls, or at least the girls he could summon up the nerve to talk to, didn’t give it up easily. Tom thought himself plain looking. No girls would fancy him, he thought. His only experience of sex came from the pornographic magazines the boys at school passed around. Tom would wank himself dry when it was his turn to borrow them.

He had never seen a real-life girl naked before. His heart pounded and his cock stood rigid like a tent pole pressing against his tight white cotton football shorts. He ached so much. Instinctively, he slipped his hand inside his shorts and stroked his member. Slowly, up the shaft from the ball sack to the tip which was already starting to glisten.

“What the hell are you doing Devenish?” It was Mr Carter, the PE master.

Tom whipped his hand from under his shorts. He blushed bright red.

“What are you doing boy!” Mr Carter shouted this time. The distinct bulge in the front of the boy’s shorts answered his question.

“You dirty little …” Mr Carter stopped himself in time from uttering a rude word. At that moment the window was opened from inside. Miss Randle, the girls’ netball coach, had heard the commotion and wanted to investigate.

Tom turned his back to the window. His member still throbbed madly.

“I caught this boy spying on your girls Miss Randle.” Tom could not see the huge grin on Mr Carter’s face. The netball coach smiled back.

“Really Mr Carter. What a very naughty boy he is,” Miss Randle’s eyes sparkled. She and Mr Carter were well acquainted. After school hours Mr Carter enjoyed very much being a “naughty boy” with the games mistress.

“Do you think he should be punished, Miss Randle?” Mr Carter remembered how much he enjoyed dreaming about being taken across Miss Randle’s knee. Whenever he saw the young temptress, he thought of being spanked.

“Yes, Mr Carter. Bring him inside.”

“Wor…?” Tom had been concentrating on his cock, thinking of boring things, trying to get it to soften. Suddenly, he realised what the two schoolteachers were talking about.

“Come with me, Devenish.”

“No way.” The teenager stood his ground.

“Have it your own way,” Mr Carter responded by gripping Tom by his left ear and dragging him towards the entrance of the changing room. He knocked politely on the door. Miss Randle opened it.

“I have explained to my girls what this dirty boy has done. He embarrassed them, I think he should suffer too,” she said.

Mr Carter’s face betrayed his puzzlement.

“Let him be spanked in front of them. Like the naughty boy that he is.”

Mr Carter nodded. Corporal punishment was widely used in the school. He put his old white size ten plimsoll across the backsides of boys regularly. Usually he made them bend over and touch their toes or put themselves across the centre of a vaulting horse.

“Yes, Miss Randle let’s do that,” he said. Turning to Tom, he said, “Bend over boy, touch your toes.”

“Wor…?” Tom had not yet recovered the power of speech.

“No Mr Carter,” Miss Randle smiled maliciously, “Not touching toes. He should go over your knee. Like a real naughty boy.”

A wave of giggles came from the netball girls. They had been absorbed by every word. What fun this would be.

Miss Randle placed a metal chair in the middle of the changing room. Mr Carter sat down, undid the laces of a plimsoll and took it off. He scrunched it in his right hand.

“Come here Devenish, bend over my knee.”

Tom’s protest, “No way!” was drowned by shrieks of laughter from twenty senior schoolgirls.

“B… b… Sir,” Tom groaned, “You can’t.” His face flushed and his eyes pleaded for mercy.

Mr Carter was not about to back down. The boy needed to be punished. The girls’ dignity must be protected. And, he would not be shown up in front of Miss Randle.

“You will do as you are told or I shall ensure that you never again play football at this school.” Mr Carter knew the eighteen-year-old’s weak spot.

“B…” Tom was wretched. Yes, he deserved to be punished, he accepted that. To be beaten even; it was that kind of school. But spanked across the gym master’s knee in front of twenty schoolgirls. That was too much.

“Bend over boy. Let’s get this over with.”

Mr Carter spread his legs to create a platform for Tom’s body. Mr Carter was more than six feet tall. As befitting a PE master, he was lean and fit. His biceps bulged. He had the strength to inflict severe pain on Tom.

Tom heard the girls’ gasp as he leaned forward, put his hand on Mr Carter’s left thigh and gently eased himself forward. The boy was easily seven or eight inches shorter than his master. He fitted snugly across the older man’s lap. He stretched his arms out in front of him and rested his palms on the cold tiled floor.

His legs stretched behind him and with his knees slightly bent his toes hovered an inch or so above the floor. In this position his cotton-covered bottom rested above Mr Carter’s thigh. It was in a terrific position to receive whacks from the teacher’s heavy slipper.

The girls gawped intently as Mr Carter took hold of the end of Tom’s white singlet and pushed it up the boy’s back, revealing an area of smooth hairless skin. Then he gripped the waistband of his shorts and tugged so that the cotton snuggled against his buttocks. The shorts were properly short and fell only an inch below Tom’s buttocks. Tightened this way, the lower part of each globe was clearly visible to the girls in the audience.

Mr Carter and Miss Randle exchanged glances. She was giving her consent. Her blessing that the spanking should commence. Mr Carter raised the slipper and brought it crashing down into the centre of Tom’s left buttock. He expelled air and his eyes closed on the impact.

The second whack fell on the left buttock. Tom puffed his cheeks and then made a perfect “O” shape with his lips. Both spanks had hurt.

Tom closed his eyes tight. To be spanked over the knee like a naughty boy was bad enough, but for it to happen in front of a crowd of girls should be a humiliation too far. But, Tom felt a strange sensation that went beyond the pain in his bum. He could not understand what it was.

Mr Carter hammered the slipper into Tom’s tight cotton shorts. The boy’s buttocks were burning. It was painful, but it was not agony. This was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of the school’s corporal punishment.

Suddenly, the pounding on his backside stopped. Tom pressed his hands against the floor and started to raise his body from Mr Carter’s lap.

“Not so fast, buster,” the PE master growled. “You’re not done yet.” He gripped the waist of Tom’s shorts and in one continuous move yanked them across the boy’s buttocks until they rested in a heap at his thighs.

“Nooooooooooo!!” Tom wailed.

Twenty girls sniggered and giggled.

“Look how red his bottom is.”

“What a lovely round bum.”

“Oh, I think he’s going to cry.”

The plimsoll descended with renewed vigour. Not one square inch of his bottom was left unattended. The slipper whacked the top of the cheeks, the curves of the globes and the underside where the bum meets the thighs. Then the enthusiastic spanker started on Tom’s thighs.

He wriggled and he writhed, but Mr Carter held Tom firmly, face down across his knees. The severity of the bare-bottom spanking twitched Tom’s loins. Soon, he was fully erect, pounding his cock into Mr Carter’s thigh as each slap connected with his hot, sweaty backside.

Suddenly, the schoolmaster realised he was in danger in receiving a full load of cum across his tracksuit trousers. And coming from an eighteen-year-old boy that would be some cargo.

Hurriedly, he stopped spanking and unceremoniously pushed the boy from his knees to the floor. The girls roared approval as the sight of Tom’s erect cock, pointing to the ceiling.

Deeply humiliated, the teenager fled from the room, not even waiting to properly pull up his shorts. The sound of ironic cheering from the girls rang in his ears.

He reached the safety of the boys’ changing room. His member still raged. He ripped down his shorts and admired his tool in the mirror. He spat into both of his hands and worked them up and down his shaft. He couldn’t catch his breath. The top of his cock twitched. Once. Twice. Then he shot a load all over the mirror.

Calm now, he poked his bum at the mirror and inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his cheeks were still tender to touch. His flesh was deep pink all over, and there was the faintest hint of bruising. He decided to leave the cum to stain the mirror, took off his singlet and shorts and stepped into the shower.

Fifteen minutes later he left the changing room. Mary Taylor, one of the girls who had witnessed his humiliating spanking, was standing outside. She had been waiting for him. He admired her legs, displayed under her too-short regulation school skirt.

She spoke. “Walk me home Tom. My parents are at work. We can have the house to ourselves until six.”

Tom’s cock stirred once more.

Other stories you might like.

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over

The padded armchair

The shoplifter


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Summer at uncle’s

used drawing cane hold (18)


This blogsite reached its first anniversary this week and to celebrate here’s a special full length story.


PETER, AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD from a small town, stays with Uncle Barnabas in London for the summer. The country boy soon learns the wicked ways of the city as he is introduced into the world of corporal punishment by a cast of characters including his cousin Albert; “out-and-proud” Nickie; and an old-fashioned schoolmaster by the unlikely name of Dr Cains.


Summer at Uncle’s runs for more than 12,000 words. You can either scroll down and read it here or download a special PDF version that can be read on a PC, computer or e-book reader. Click the link below. The downloadable version also has illustrations.

Summer at Uncle’s by Charles Hamilton II


Peter stepped off the bus and elbowed with other passengers to collect his rucksack from the driver. Victoria Coach Station heaved with people – of all shapes, sizes and colours.

The eighteen-year-old pushed his way through the crowds with mounting excitement. There were men with long beards, old women in saris, two women were dressed head to foot in black with only a slit in their costumes for their eyes. He had never seen anything like it before. This was going to be a summer to remember.

Peter had never been to London. He lived in a tiny town in Dorset. He had never seen a black face there; never mind women in burkas. The streets were crowded with people, many rushing to the coach station. He was pushed this way and shoved the other; a young man and a rucksack can take up a lot of space on packed pavements.

He found the Underground station and checked the handwritten note his mother had made. It was his directions to Uncle Barnabas’s house. He bought a ticket and made his way to the Victoria Line. He knew he had to change trains twice, but he was a bright boy and it shouldn’t be a worry.

It was Saturday afternoon and the platform was busy. Peter could see many were tourists. Some of the accents he heard sounded American. American! How glamorous. As he stood and waited for his train four men walked by. Other passengers made efforts to ignore them. They knew they were there, but they pretended otherwise. The four men were dressed in English school uniform. They wore black blazers with red edgings with white shirts and striped ties. That wasn’t what got them noticed. What everyone pretended not to see was the grey short trousers and long knee socks the men wore.

They were old enough to be his father, Peter thought, and one of them considerably more so. Who were they? He looked around expecting to see a film camera but there was nothing. Were they part of a publicity stunt; but if so what were they advertising. He gaped in bafflement. Suddenly, one of the adult-schoolboys caught him staring. The man flashed a cheeky smile and winked. Peter’s face resembled the colour of beetroot. He always embarrassed easily. He was mightily relieved when the train thundered into the station.

Otherwise, it was an uneventful journey. His mother’s directions were detailed. Soon he stood on the doorstep of Uncle Barnabas’s house. His uncle was the rich one in the family. He was “something in The City,” but Peter was not sure what. Stockbroking, he understood, but Uncle’s line of work bewildered him.

When Peter had been invited to stay for the summer he accepted with alacrity. London for three months, you betcha! What a time he would have. He was told he could even get a job; there was plenty of work in burger bars, or pubs, or filling supermarket shelves. He had just left school and was waiting for his exam results; if they were good enough he would be off to university in October.

He rang the bell and waited. It was a massive town house; his mother had said there were at least twenty rooms. It’s not a house, she had giggled, it’s a hotel. He waited and eventually the door opened. A rather formidable middle-aged woman stood and peered at him. He was disappointed a butler had not appeared. It was his Aunt Martha.

She smiled wanly and stood back to let him enter. His mother was right about the hotel. He stepped into a large hall and in the distance was a large spiral staircase. There were seven dark wooden doors, which he supposed led to drawing rooms and libraries and whatever it was that posh houses had.

Aunt Martha examined the boy standing before her and Peter tried desperately not to flush scarlet. It had been at least four years since they had met. It was at a cousin’s wedding. The whole family had attended; people feel obliged to attend such events.

Aunt Martha was tall for a woman and despite advancing middle age, she had a firm muscular body. She wore jodhpur-type trousers and a dark top, buttoned to the neck. Her eye glasses made her look a little fearsome; rather like an old-fashioned schoolmistress.

She waved her hand toward the staircase. “Follow me.” Her instruction was terse. She led the way up the stairs. Peter’s eyes followed her voluptuous backside all the way. His bedroom was massive; it was bigger than many flats back in his hometown. There was even an ensuite bathroom. Yes, it was a hotel.

“I’ll leave you to get settled; I’ll call you for supper,” and with that she turned on her heels and Peter watched her arse disappear down the passageway. He explored the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards. All his belongings could fit into one of them. He stretched out on the bed, he had never before slept in a double bed. The one he had at home was so small his feet poked out the end. You lucky sod, he thought, you’ve landed a winner here.

He ran the shower, stepped in and washed himself down. His cock twitched; it often did this when he rubbed himself with soap. It had been a huge embarrassment to him at school after PE lessons. Suddenly, the vision of Aunt Martha and that arse flooded his senses. His cock ached. The erection was strong and powerful. He closed his eyes, lathered up the soap and worked away, first at his balls and then up and down the shaft. He suppressed a squeal when he reached the tip of his cock. But, he couldn’t hold out; it only took three strokes before a rush of cum shot across the shower.

He towelled himself down; ashamed. He had tossed off to the vision of his Aunt Martha, what kind of pervert did that make him?

It was a warm summer afternoon so he found his blue cotton shorts and clambered into them. Then he put on a yellow tee-shirt. He stepped into a pair of flip-flops. He was ready. His aunt hadn’t said when “supper” would be, but he supposed it was some time off. He would explore the house. He walked through the passageway; all the doors were closed. It was eerily quiet for such a large house. He padded down the staircase, intent on going outside to look at the garden and grounds.

He was walking through the cavernous hall when a crack like a pistol shot rang out. He knew it wasn’t gunfire. Then he heard another. It was coming from a nearby room. Intrigued, he pressed his ear against the door and heard voices. Then another crack. The door was ancient and the keyhole was wide. Checking that no one was in the hall to see him, for Peter knew spying was not right, he bent down and put his eye to the hole.

His pupil dilated. What the hell was going on? The vision the boy saw was of a young man bent across the back of a small padded armchair. His trousers were at his ankles and his underpants at the knees. Peter had an arse-on view, he couldn’t see the young man’s face, but surely it was his cousin Albert. It must be, he reckoned, because standing behind him about to flog a whippy school cane into his naked backside was Uncle Barnabas. He raised the cane high and swiped it with great force into the buttocks. His cousin shuddered, but kept his positon. Uncle Barnabas raised the cane once more.

Suddenly, Peter felt a great pain in his left ear as a hand grabbed it and hauled him to his feet.

“Peeping Tom! How dare you spy at keyholes!” It was a furious Aunt Martha. “What do you think you are doing,” she pushed him away from the door. “Get up those stairs. Go to your room. Stay there. I’ll deal with you later.”

At that second the door opened and Albert appeared. His pale face reddened when he realised his caning had been witnessed by his mother and cousin. He rushed up the stairs two at a time. A shamefaced Peter followed at a more sedate pace.

Supper was a quiet affair. Peter had three cousins but Alexander who was twenty was away at university in Newcastle and had decided to stay there for the summer. Elizabeth, a precocious sixteen-year-old, was travelling Europe with a friend’s family. That left Albert, who was Peter’s age, and Aunt Martha and Uncle Barnabas.

Albert sat in total silence. Peter supposed he was embarrassed about the caning. That, and the fact that he was dressed in grey short trousers, long socks and a white shirt. He looked like the four men Peter had seen at the Tube station.

Peter made polite conversation. He answered questions about his own family and his plans for the summer, but his heart was not in it. He wanted the meal to end. This was all too embarrassing. He hadn’t forgotten his aunt’s earlier threat, “I’ll deal with you later.”

At last he and Albert were allowed to leave the table. The cousins trudged up the stairs.

“Come to my room,” Albert smiled at Peter. It was a warm smile. The teenager’s face lit up when he grinned. His blue eyes sparkled and dimples formed on his cheeks.

Albert’s bedroom was huge but it was cluttered with the debris that teenage boys collect. He cleared cricket gear from a hard chair and let Peter sit. Albert stretched out on the soft bed. Peter wondered if his cousin’s backside was still sore. It looked like one heck of a caning. Peter had never been caned himself, nor spanked even, he didn’t know how painful it was.

Peter stared at his cousin and his short trousers. They were proper short trousers, like children wore with school uniforms, they weren’t summer shorts like Peter was wearing.

“The short trousers?” Albert had read his cousin’s mind. “It’s a long story,” he said and then launched into it. It had started a few months back when he had failed all his “mock exams” at school. He had been given twelve-of-the-best with a rattan cane by his father, but he left that part out of the story. He did tell Peter that his dad had the idea that by putting him back into short trousers it would concentrate his mind. It would also keep him in the house and stop him spending evenings and weekends with his friends. Which eighteen-year-old boy would want to be seen dead wearing short trousers?

So, that was it really. Short trousers as punishment. Peter remembered the men in the Tube station. He wasn’t a man of the world, but surely it was a bit kinky for adults to wear school short trousers. He thought better than to ask Albert what he thought.

He changed the subject. “Sorry about earlier …” he trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Albert’s caning. “Your mum caught me spying at the keyhole,” he laughed.

“I’m surprised she didn’t take you across her knee and spank your bare bum with her hairbrush,” Albert said. Peter grinned and was about to make a witty rejoinder when he saw his cousin’s grim expression. He had not been joking.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

Peter blanched. No, surely not.



Later that evening Peter was in his bathroom. He had stripped down to his bright yellow briefs and was washing himself and cleaning his teeth. He studied himself in the mirror. He was thin and bony with a hairless chest and stomach; an eighteen-year-old youth with the body of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy. His mother often said he needed “fattening up.” He was a little shorter than average and his cheap short-back-and-sides haircut emphasised his schoolboy look.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a stern rat-a-tat-tat knocking on the door. Before he could respond the door opened and Aunt Martha stood grimly in the doorway. She stood for a moment as if apprising if it was safe to enter. When she saw her nephew standing with a confused expression and dressed only in his underwear, she strode in kicking the door closed behind her.

Peter stood transfixed. Aunt Martha was still dressed in her jodhpur trousers and black blouse. The image of her vast arse flashed before his eyes. His cock twitched. Instinctively, he cupped his hand in front of his penis, hiding any tell-tale movement. He was so concerned by her buttocks that at first he failed to register an important factor.

In her right hand she held a long thin leather riding crop. She allowed it to dangle at her side. She peered closely at Peter. She was a no-nonsense lady, she ran her own successful business; she knew how to get straight to the point.

“We don’t like peeping toms here,” she snarled. “Naughty little boys should not be peeping through keyholes.” She gently tapped the riding crop against her leg as she berated the teenager. His eyes widened as they followed the movement of the crop.

“We have standards in this house. Rules. Codes of behaviour.” She spoke as if she were addressing a room full of people. Then as if as an afterthought, she added, “Your mother would be ashamed of you.”

She stopped. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Peter was dumb. Was he expected to say something? If so, what? Even as he had been spying through the keyhole to witness Albert’s bare-bottomed caning, he knew he was behaving badly. It had been a temptation that he could not resist.

Aunt Martha lifted the crop and pointed it at her confused nephew. “We have ways of dealing with naughty little boys in this house.”

Peter’s youthful, open face blushed scarlet. Why did she keep calling him a “naughty little boy?”

She bent the crop between her hands. It was a sturdy whip. It was not too supple. It was designed for horses. Its job was to cut into thick flesh to encourage a horse to obey its mistress. Aunt Martha knew it could also encourage naughty little boys onto better behaviour.

Peter watched transfixed as his aunt walked to the bed and leaned across it. Her buttocks stretched tightly against the smooth material of her trousers. Quickly, he averted his eyes. He must keep control of his cock. His aunt bundled together four pillows and quickly piled them one on top of the other at the edge of the bed.

There were no prizes for guessing her intentions.

“B.. B..” Peter was literally at a loss for words. What could he say? Everything Aunt Martha had said was true. He had spied on his uncle and cousin. It was a bad thing to do.

Aunt Martha straightened herself up and took up position a foot or two away from the bed. Peter’s heart raced.

“I’m surprised she didn’t take you across her knee and spank your bare bum with her hairbrush.”

Albert hadn’t been quite right. It wasn’t to be a hairbrush spanking.

Aunt Martha swiped the whip through the air before tapping it across the top of the pillow tower. The command was curt. She expected to be obeyed. “Bend over those pillows.”

Peter stood rooted; unable to move. He stared intently at the leather riding crop. He felt incredibly exposed, in only skimpy cotton briefs.

Aunt Martha glared. She was not used to such disobedience. “If you do not put yourself over those pillows I’ll come over there and pull your underpants down and tan your bare bottom so hard you won’t sit for a week, you naughty little boy.”

With his hands still strategically placed in front of his pants, the teenager slowly moved forward. His heart beat so loudly he could hear it. Blood rushed so fast through his body he feared his ears would pop. He stood for a moment at the edge of the bed looking down at the pillows. Then he fell forward. His face was pressed into the sweet smelling eiderdown; the toes of his feet brushed the deep pile carpet and his bottom was raised over the pillows.

His face was so close to the eiderdown that he could see nothing. Everything was black. He felt a rustle behind him and then heard a swishing sound. The pain was intense. Aunt Martha had landed the crop across the very centre of his bum. He wriggled from side to side. The intensity of the pain subsided almost immediately, leaving his behind throbbing.

He humped the pillows after the second whack slashed into his bum. That hurt. A lot. He lifted his head from the bed and sucked in great gulps of air. He was still wheezing for breath when Aunt Martha sent her crop whizzing into the underside of his cheeks. His pants were so brief that they hardly covered his arse. That cut stuck him on bare flesh and he yelped like a little whipped puppy.

Aunt Martha paused to admire her handiwork. Before her she saw her eighteen-year-old nephew laid face-down over a pile of pillows. His cotton-covered bottom trembled and quivered. The boy could not keep still; his body was moving up and down. He crossed and uncrossed his legs at the ankles. He buried his head in his arms. She could see he appeared to be in great pain; but he remained submissive waiting for her to continue the punishment.

She aimed higher this time and struck the top of his mounds. He huffed and puffed, “Huff, huff, huff,” and repeated his wriggling and humping.

She could not see his face and had no idea whether tears were flowing. To her tears were a bonus. Experience with her own sons told her big boys didn’t cry. Mostly they took their spankings stoically. They didn’t make much fuss, but that didn’t mean they weren’t exceptionally painful and something to be avoided.

She whacked two almighty stingers one after another. Slash. Slash. That got the boy panting and wheezing and rolling and rocking over the pillows. “Huff, huff, huff,” Peter wheezed. Then he settled and lay taking deep breaths.

Aunt Martha tucked the riding crop under her arm. That was it. Six-of-the-best. That would teach the naughty little boy to spy at keyholes. She looked down at the teenager, still gasping for breath.

“That’s it you can stand up now. It’s over. No more peeking at keyholes.”

Peter made no response. His face was still pressed into the eiderdown. Aunt Martha took one more look at the boy’s bottom. The backs of his thighs were striped red. His buttocks would be roaring, she thought. Serves the naughty little boy right.

Quietly, she opened the door and left. Peter waited a moment or two to make sure she had gone. Then, gingerly he lifted himself to his feet. He found he could not walk easily. The front of his underpants was full of sticky goo.




Uncle Barnabas and Aunt Martha were professional people and spent much of the week at work. That suited Albert perfectly, it meant he had the run of the house. It made him very popular with friends who had a ready-made place to hang out. London was spectacularly short of free meeting places for young people. The availability of many spare bedrooms in the house proved particularly attractive.

Nickie – with an “ie” as he constantly told people – was a welcome visitor. He and Peter sat in the large walled garden at the back of the house. Nickie had the whitest hair Peter had ever seen. Not even old men had hair so white. It must have come out of a bottle, he supposed. Nickie’s hair was expensively cut and was as flat as a plateau on top,

He was “out and proud.” Peter had never met a homosexual before. He didn’t think there were any in the town where he lived. If there were they probably kept quiet about it. This was 1986 and if you believed the newspapers, gay boys were a hazard to public health.

Albert appeared carrying two bottles of red wine and three coffee mugs.

Nickie’s eyes shone. “Where did you get those?”

“My dad has lots; he won’t miss a couple.”

He set the bottles on a table and expertly cut the foil and extracted the cork. There was a satisfactory glug, glug, glug as he poured wine into the first mug. Soon the three teenagers were toasting one another. Nickie and Albert took extensive gulps of their wine. Peter was not so confident. He had never drunk wine before. He was hardly a drinker, despite his age. He didn’t much like the taste of alcohol. He could make a bottle of Labatts last all night and still leave it behind half full.

Albert poured refills. Nickie lay back on a beach towel, strategically placed on the threadbare lawn. “I do adore you in those short trousers.” He loved to tease Albert. “Very sexy,” he snickered. Albert pulled a face.

Peter told them about the four men he had seen dressed in school uniforms at Victoria Underground station. “They were older than my dad,” he added incredulously.

“Oh they were probably going to the Whacko! Club,” Nickie said matter of factly.

“The Whacko Club?”

“Yes it’s a male corporal punishment club. They meet above a pub called the Spring Chickens. You see lots of guys dressed as school kids.”


“Others like to be headmasters,” Nickie added confidently. “Some are into heavier stuff. You know, whips and chains,” he smiled brightly and took another huge swig of wine.

Yeah right, Peter thought. This was a wind-up. No such places really existed.

“You should check it out, Pierre,” Nickie continued. “You’d go down a storm with your boyish hips and daft haircut.”

Peter resented being called “Pierre,” but what could he say? He scowled instead.

“I’ll take you next Saturday,” Nickie’s eyes twinkled as he observed his new friend’s reaction closely. “You said you might be looking for a job. You could earn more in one night at Whacko! than you’d get burning burgers at Wimpy in a month.”

“What are you talking about,” Albert grinned.

“Yes dear boy,” Nickie affected a Noel Coward voice, “Our fathers may spank us for free, but others must pay us a fee.” He collapsed in a fit of giggles. He poured the dregs of wine into his mug and nonchalantly tossed the bottle over the high fence into the garden next door.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Peter protested.

Nickie laid on his back, contemplated the heavy rain clouds forming overhead, and sighed, “Out of sight, out of mind dear boy.”

Albert opened the second bottle.

Suddenly, the heavens opened and rain lashed down. The boys gathered together the wine and mugs and dashed inside, leaving the towels to soak.

It wasn’t until the following Saturday that Peter and Albert got the call. Uncle Barnabas wanted to see them in his study. Immediately.

Albert, wearing his grey short trousers and Peter in a tattered pair of Levi cut-offs, stood side by side in front of Uncle Barnabas’ desk. It was a huge room, which he sometimes used when he worked from home. It had dark mahogany panels around the walls and a large window with stained glass decorations. Uncle sat behind a walnut desk. It reminded Peter of an old-fashioned headmaster’s study.

That wasn’t the only similarity. The last time Peter had seen inside this room was when he peeped through the keyhole to witness Uncle Barnabas thrash Albert’s bare backside with a whippy rattan school cane. He was relieved that the cane did not appear to be present that afternoon.

What was in evidence was an empty bottle of red wine sitting on the desk. Peter could not be certain, but it looked like one that the boys had drunk earlier in the week.

“Mr Joseph from next door tells me that this wine bottle,” Uncle Barnabas nodded at his desk, “was found in his back garden. He believes it was thrown over the fence from here.”

“Oh dad,” Albert flashed his winning smile. He made sure his beautiful teeth gleamed and his dimples showed. “It could have come from anywhere.” He smiled again as if to say, “Well, really, of course it wasn’t us.”

His father glowered. He was an angry man. He was sick and tired of his unruly son. “It could not. I have this wine specially imported. I doubt if anyone else in the district has wine like this.”

Albert’s face fell. The smile disappeared like ice in sunshine. “Oh,” he mumbled. There wasn’t much more to say.

“I have checked my cellar. There are two bottles missing. What do you have to say to that?”

Peter felt his face flaming up. Bloody wine. He hadn’t wanted to drink it. It gave him a thumping headache. Now, look at the trouble it was causing him.

Albert shrugged his shoulders and had the grace to look abashed.

“Albert, did you steal my wine?” It was a straight question demanding a straight answer.

“I wouldn’t call it stealing …” Albert began but trailed off, unconvinced of his own argument.

“Pah!” his father exploded, “What else would you call taking my wine without permission. It is downright theft!”

Albert stared at his bare feet. Peter shuffled with embarrassment.

“I won’t have it. I simply won’t have it. My own son stealing from me.” He rose from his chair and walked to the front of the desk. Peter saw he was wearing loose linen trousers and an electric blue shirt; perfect attire for a warm summer’s day. Incongruously, on his feet he wore bedroom slippers without socks.

Without speaking, he lifted a straight-backed chair from its place against the wall and set it down in the middle of the room. Peter eyed him nervously. Albert’s pretty face twitched. His eyes blinked fast.

Uncle Barnabas sat on the chair, reached down and took off the slipper from his right foot. He squeezed it in his hand. It was soft and the top was made of checked cloth. The sole was rubber. It was typical of its kind; similar slippers had been used to spank the backsides of naughty boys for generations.

He looked menacingly at his son. “You know the drill.”

“But dad,” Albert implored. He meant, “Dad please don’t spank me in front of Peter. It’s not fair.”

His father read his mind. “Don’t worry you will both get it.”

“But, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. I stole the wine, not him,” Albert was an incorrigible rogue most of the time, but he was an honourable boy.

Peter’s hopes were raised only to be dashed on the rocks.

“Maybe, but he helped to drink it.” It was his uncle’s last word on the matter.

“Now, shorts down. Bend over my knee.”

Albert’s short trousers had a half-elasticated waist so didn’t need a belt. Peter watched as the eighteen-year-old unfastened the metal clasp at the top and allowed the trousers to slip down to his feet. In one continuous movement, he stepped out of them and took two paces towards his father and then gently lowered himself across his lap.

He stretched his hands out ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat on the carpet. His legs were slightly bent at the knees and his toes hardly brushed the ground. Peter stood immediately behind his cousin. He had a magnificent view of his arse. Albert was growing out of his navy blue-coloured pants and they clung snugly to his buttocks. His crack was clearly visible through the smooth cotton.

It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Uncle Barnabas took hold of the waistband of the pants and pulled, making doubly sure that there were no creases in the seat. Satisfied that they fitted like a second skin, Uncle Barnabas raised the slipper to shoulder height and smacked it down across Albert’s left cheek.

The thwack of rubber on stretched flesh resounded around the room. Peter flinched as the slipper struck home, but Albert did not. He remained resolutely staring down at the carpet concentrating on its various mixes of brown. Uncle Barnabas moved his own left arm and used it to pin his son tightly across his lap, then he battered the boy’s bum with the slipper. Hard and rapid.

Albert gasped and wheezed. His face gurned like a gargoyle. His body twisted and turned. His legs kicked up and down. After twenty-four cracks, Uncle Barnabas stopped. Albert’s head was still bouncing up and down off the carpet.

The teenager remained still. It was not over yet. He knew from experience there was more to come. And there was. Unceremoniously, his uncle tugged the teenager’s underpants down until they bunched at the thighs.

Peter gasped. His cousin’s buttocks were bright red, but even from a distance he could detect a number of lines running parallel from left to right across his backside. There were the remains of the cuts from the cane Albert had endured the previous weekend. It must have been some thrashing, Peter supposed. His own bottom had been badly marked by Aunt Martha’s riding crop, but the livid red marks had quickly turned, first to mauve and then various shades of blue to yellow, and by Thursday they had disappeared altogether.

Uncle Barnabas clutched his slipper tightly and renewed the onslaught on his son’s now bare bottom. Albert at first folded his arms and when that did nothing to absorb the pain, he clasped his hands together rather like some people do when they pray. Another two dozen whacks tore up his savaged cheeks. Not one square inch of his buttocks and thighs was left unblemished. The pain was searing. A burning sensation ripped through the boy’s bum. Every nerve end was frayed.

Uncle Barnabas was an expert spanker, but his son was also an experienced receiver. A boy laid across his father’s lap to receive a sound spanking has little control over his body. It will involuntarily wriggle and squirm. Legs will kick out; it’s a reflex action. But, a boy does have control of the sounds he makes. Albert groaned and gasped but no matter how much pain he felt, he didn’t yelp or yell. He didn’t plead for mercy or promise to behave better in future if dad would only stop whopping his arse.

He did none of these things. As the parlance goes: he took his punishment like a man.

When dad spanked he gave twenty-four on the seat of the underpants and another two dozen on the bare. After whack forty-eight bounced off his bum, Albert lay quietly. The pain at the point of impact had been searing, but even now it was reducing to a constant throb. Soon it would be a warm glow. He waited patiently for his father to release his grip on his middle.

Moments later he was back on his feet with his underpants and short trousers back in their rightful places. He stood close to the wall of the study and massaged his bottom gently. It felt really good. He would never admit it to his dad, but his head always felt remarkably clear after a spanking. It was almost a feeling of euphoria. He couldn’t understand why.

He watched on as his cousin lowered his cut-off jeans and stepped out of them. Albert didn’t know it but Peter felt he had much to live up to. He greatly admired Albert’s grit. He hoped he could endure his spanking as well as his cousin.

Uncle Barnabas made no concessions for first-offenders. In his book a spanking was a spanking. It had to hurt considerably, otherwise what was the point of it?

Peter was shorter than his cousin and both his head and his legs dangled off the ground. The first slap took him by surprise and then he kicked his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned his body all over his uncle’s lap, but he held him tight with his big arm wrapped around Peter’s midsection. He beat out a staccato rhythm on the teenager’s backside, but Peter made no sound at all.

It felt like flames were lapping his bottom. Then the whacking ceased. Peter knew what was coming next. He braced himself. Without an instant’s pause, Uncle Barnabas reached for the waistband of Peter’s thin, small, green briefs and tugged them over the boy’s bony hips and lean rump, down to his knees.

Peter remained silent, but being in front of his cousin with his pants down and his bare bum up in the air was pretty embarrassing.

Uncle Barnabas delivered the first spank on Peter’s naked left cheek and then gave him a hard swat about every five seconds for the first ten or so, alternating between his left cheek and right. Peter endured this though his bum felt like he had sat in a bath of hot water. After about ten, uncle increased the speed to about one every second. It seemed like a blur and Peter felt the heat building and he was “oohing” and “aahing.”

He stopped spanking after twenty-four whacks and lifted his nephew off his lap. The boy reached back immediately with his hand and rubbed furiously, not realising that this made his soft cock bounce up and down in front of his uncle.

Minutes later the two boys were in Albert’s bedroom. Shorts and pants had been discarded and they were admiring the red sheen on each other’s raw backsides.

“Yours is even redder than the wine we drank,” Albert gently caressed his cousin’s savaged cheeks.

“Yours feels like it could heat the whole room,” Peter rubbed Albert’s backside roughly.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he feigned pain. Both boys hugged and laughed. There was nothing to compare with the bonding two friends feel after they have been spanked together.

“It’s all Nickie’s fault,” Albert grinned. “If he hadn’t chucked the bottle over the fence we’d never have been found out.”

“That’s right,” Peter’s cock twitched. “So which of us is going to give him his spanking?” They both collapsed in a fit of the giggles.




“You want to cane me on my botty-wotty,” Nickie shrieked with laughter. “Oh, yes per-lease!” He put his hands on his knees and jutted his backside out comically. “Oh! Oww! Ouch! Eek!” he jumped up and down and clasped his hands to the seat of his ripped jeans.

Peter frowned, but Albert giggled. It was an absurd idea, he knew that. They had endured a sound bare-bottomed spanking over Uncle Barnabas’s knee for stealing his wine. They wouldn’t have been found out if Nickie hadn’t chucked an empty bottle into next door’s garden. Surely, the two teenagers had thought, he should be punished too.

“Yes,” Peter rebuked Nickie sternly, he wasn’t joking. “Why should you get away with it?”

Nickie beamed. He had a wonderful smile. His whole face lit up. His blue eyes shone and his ruby lips were very kissable. What Peter had not yet realised was Nickie often sold his arse to corporal punishment enthusiasts. He loved being spanked and caned. A punishment for him would be not to be caned.

“Sorry.” Nickie was genuine. He hadn’t meant to get his pals into trouble. It was his fault they got caught. They wouldn’t have been spanked by Uncle Barnabas if it wasn’t for him.

“Okay,” Nickie looked Peter in the eye. “If you want to you can cane me.” Peter could feel his face colouring up. He was always too easily embarrassed. “You too,” he looked across at Albert who was seated in a garden chair affecting an air of indifference.

“Sure,” Albert stood up. “I’ll fetch one of dad’s canes. We should do this indoors. In the lounge.”

While Albert rifled through his dad’s collection of whippy rattans, Peter rearranged the furniture in the lounge room. A leather armchair, so worn it must surely be an antique, was the right height. Nickie could bend over its back in comfort, but Peter would ensure what happened next was far from comfortable.

“Here we are,” Albert entered the room with a thin yellow cane tucked under his arm. “Let’s say six each. Twelve in all.” He slipped the cane into his hand and swished it through the still air. It made a terrific swooshing sound.

Nickie shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever,” he thought. He caught Peter’s eye; he had a maniacal glint. He looked as if he was going to enjoy this very much indeed.

Nickie’s heavy ripped jeans would give ample protection against the thwack of the cane; especially one as thin as the rod Albert was theatrically bending between his hands. Unbidden, Nickie unbuckled his belt, popped the metal buttons on his fly and pushed the Levis to his feet. He wore a pair of very (for Nickie) conventional maroon-coloured briefs. His mother had probably bought them for him at Marks and Spencer.

He leant over the back of the chair and gripped the front of the seat cushion. Close up, Nickie could see how distressed the leather was. It smelt of dust. At that moment, the teenager realised the chair might have been in the family for generations. How many people had been in his position over the years, he wondered, with their head low and bottom held high while some master in authority whipped their arse with a cane?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sting. Albert had delivered his first stroke. Nickie felt it, but it was hardly painful. Nor were any of the six strokes Albert administered. He didn’t want to hurt his friend; why would he? If it wasn’t for Peter, he wouldn’t be doing this at all.

Albert handed the cane to Peter. Peter was no expert in caning, but he remembered how Uncle Barnabas had dealt with Albert, the time he peeked through the keyhole of the study. Uncle had put some beef into the strokes. And so did Peter. He swiped the cane across Nickie’s maroon underpants with great force; he might have been beating a carpet.

Nickie felt those strokes. He screwed up his face and puffed out air through his teeth after each one landed, but he made little sound. The teenager was often caned; he had a very high pain threshold. With the guys he considered his “clients” he would put on a show. If they wanted him to he would yelp and scream and beg to be let off the caning. Others preferred a more stoical reaction where he simply bent over and absorbed the sometimes intense pain.

Nickie’s arse throbbed when Peter had finished, but rather like a schoolboy who had been caned by his headmaster, he wasn’t about to let the teenager know he had hurt him. He bent down and pulled up his jeans.

“Right,” Albert was embarrassed. How should this end? Then he had an idea. “Who says we go to the pub. Nickie’s buying.”




It would soon be granddad’s sixty-fifth birthday and the family planned a party. They asked him to find mementoes – photographs and the like – from his childhood and teenage years so they could make a display. He had lots of things in the loft at home, but Aunt Martha thought he was too old to be climbing ladders and crawling around the roof space so she despatched Peter and Albert to do it. When they got to his house they found him already sorting through cardboard boxes.

“You shouldn’t be going in the loft granddad,” Albert chided.

“Why ever not?”

“Because you’re an old man now,” he teased, running the word “old” around his tongue as he had once heard Nickie do.

Granddad knew he was being wound up, so he gave some back to his grandson. “I see you father still has you dressed in short trousers.”

Albert wasn’t about to let his granddad know but he was used to the juvenile clothes. When he walked the streets nobody seemed to notice he was dressed in school uniform and his friends thought it was a good laugh. Being forced to wear grey school short trousers like a little boy was not much of punishment and it was infinitely preferable than going over his dad’s knee for another bare-arsed tanning.

Granddad picked up a small pile of yellowing papers. “My old school reports,” he waved them around. “I’ve got them all. This one’s when I was twelve. It says, ‘Richard is very lazy. He would do well if he applied himself.’” Granddad chuckled. “My father gave me a good hiding when he read that.” Peter couldn’t be sure but he thought the old man’s eyes misted at the memory. “It must have done me some good, I passed my exams and went on to university.”

He put the school report on the dining table. It would be ideal for his family exhibition. Uninvited Albert delved into a box. There were several fading back-and-white photos. “What’s this granddad?” He held up a picture of two teenagers in what even without the benefit of colour he could see were clearly posh school blazers.

“Blooming heck,” he said. Granddad usually swore like a trooper but it amused him when he was around his grandchildren to pretend that he was genteel. “I haven’t seen that picture for years. St Augustus Grammar.” He trailed off, suddenly overcome with a memory.

Albert peered closely at the picture. It was clear which of the two boy was granddad. These days the old man had little hair and had fleshed out considerably since his schooldays, but the shape of his head and the sticky-out ears were unmistakable.

“Who’s the other boy?” Peter thought he looked sad, as if he were carrying the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. Granddad took hold of the photo and studied it intently. “Geraldson Major,” he whispered. “Old Gerry,” his lips quivered into a wan smile. “We got up to some scrapes.”

Albert beamed and nodded his head vigorously, encouraging the old man to tell a tale of his schooldays. “Six of the best,” granddad stuttered the words. “We were in the sixth form. Eighteen years old. That blinking headmaster, we called him Dr Toaster, because he was always warming up boys’ backsides.” He trailed off once more.

“So what did you do granddad?” Albert knew that the old man used to beat his own father with a cane when he was a boy. Corporal punishment was a family tradition. He would enjoy hearing that granddad was also given a sore bum when he was a kid.

“Nothing really. We skipped school so we could line up and buy tickets for the FA Cup semi-finals. We got found out, of course. We got a sound caning for our troubles.” Granddad’s voice changed. He appeared to be mimicking his old headmaster. “Trousers down. Bend over. Touch your toes.” Granddad’s eyes twinkled. “I suppose old Toaster was a rugby man.”

He looked closely at the photograph and the twinkle faded and his eyes misted. “Poor Gerry. He died in the war.”

Just then the front door opened and closed. “In here!” granddad called. A youth no older than Albert and Peter appeared. He had jet black hair – obviously dyed – which stuck up from his scalp in all directions. He looked like a throwback to the Punks. He was laden with four bulging Tesco carrier bags. “This is Ferris,” granddad said by way of introduction. “Some of my grandchildren,” he nodded at the two teenagers.

“Pleased,” Ferris grinned a crooked smiled. Then looking at the bags in his hands, he said, “I’ll just put these away.”

“Who was that?” Albert liked the boy already. He was odd-looking, someone who was not conventional.

“That’s Ferris. He stays here sometimes.”

“Is he your lodger?”

Granddad beamed. “Ferris!” he shouted so the boy could hear him in the next room. “Albert asks if you are my lodger!” A shriek of laughter peeled from the kitchen. “Well, I suppose rent is sometimes involved.”

Granddad’s face flushed and he returned his attention to the boxes. He picked up a bundle of letters tied up with string. The knot was too tight. “Flipping heck. I can’t untie this.”

“Here,” Peter delved into his pocket and withdrew his pride and joy: a Swiss Army Knife and granddad cut the string.

“What are they granddad, love letters?” Albert’s face shined. Was he about to discover some juicy secret about the old man’s past? Granddad shuffled the envelopes in his hands. “Birthday cards mostly. Picture postcards. Nothing too interesting.”

Ferris returned to the room and hovered unsure what he should do. “Should I …?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He meant should he go upstairs and keep out of the way.

“No, Ferris. We’re looking at my old photos and things.”

Ferris picked up the school photo and held it close to his face. Peter thought the boy must need glasses. “What a sexy creature you were,” he shrieked with laughter again. Granddad’s face flushed, but his shoulders heaved. He had enjoyed the compliment immensely.

About an hour later, Peter and Albert were approaching the Underground station on their way home. “Bugger it,” Peter stuck his hands in his pockets, searching them all. “I’ve left my knife behind.”

Albert shrugged. “C’mon. let’s go back. It’ll only take ten minutes.” They walked in companionable silence. At the house they heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner whirring. Peter had an insatiable curiosity. Many would say he was “nosey.” It got him in trouble sometimes. He still masturbated at the memory of the riding-crop thrashing Aunt Martha gave him for peeking through the keyhole when Albert was caned by his dad.

Instead of ringing the doorbell, Peter stepped over the flowerbeds and peered through the window. One day he would learn this was bad behaviour. Spying was an intrusion of privacy. Sometimes you saw things it was better not to see. Some secrets were best left unrevealed.

Inside the lounge room Ferris was entirely naked, except for a pair of gleaming white briefs. They were a size or two too small. The under curves of his buttocks were visible and even from a distance Peter could see the outline of the boy’s cock. Unlike, every boy Peter knew, Ferris was not circumcised.

Granddad sat in the centre of a large leather couch watching. Ferris sashayed his hips and tight bottom as he glided the vacuum cleaner across the rug. Then, he released the Hoover and put his hands on his knees, stuck out his bum and wriggled it. Still bending over, he looked over his shoulder at granddad.

The old man gave a signal with his eyes. Ferris straightened and skipped across the room to granddad. No words were spoken. Ferris lay face down across granddad’s lap. The couch was large enough for Ferris to have his chest on one side of granddad and stretch his legs behind him. His toes rested on the arm of the couch.

Peter watched astonished as granddad, slowly and gently peeled down the tight briefs. Ferris’s bum was creamy white and contrasted starkly with his deeply suntanned body. Granddad gently caressed Ferris’s buttocks, making circling motions. He pinched the teenager’s flesh. The bum was tight; there wasn’t much “give.” Then, granddad, stroked Ferris’s hairless back. He spent some time at the shoulders. Ferris purred like a cat.

Suddenly, granddad raised his right hand and brought it smacking down into the teenager’s left buttock cheek. Then the right. He kept up a staccato rhythm; randomly smacking the cheeks high, then low, then high, then at the crest of the mounds.

Albert stared at his cousin. The look on Peter’s face scared him. He moved forward toward the window. “What is it? What are you looking at?”




Peter got a part-time job at a burger bar and he was loving every minute of it. Most of the people who worked there were like him; they had just left school or were students on vacation from university.

He was there one day when the manager Billy had a public row with Timothy. “You’ve been falsifying your timesheets,” Billy accused.

“No I haven’t boss,” was Timothy’s predictable response.

“You have. I’ve been going through them You’re putting an hour or more extra a day. That adds up to a day a week.”

“It’s just a mistake. Sorry boss.”

Nobody was working by this stage. There were all ears. Those who had worked at the bar for a while knew where this would end.

“It’s no mistake. You’ve been doing it every day for weeks.”

Timothy looked abashed. So did a few of his co-workers. Inflating the timesheets was the oldest trick in the book. You could get away with it too if you didn’t get too greedy.

“I should sack you,” Billy frowned.

“Oh, come on boss,” Timothy flushed. He didn’t need the sack. He had payments to make on his car.

“Alright. Come and see me in my office at the end of the shift.” With that Billy strutted from the room.

A gang of schoolchildren came into the bar and they got back to work. Everyone knew what “see me in my office at the end of the shift” meant, but not a word was spoken on the subject.

At six on the dot, Timothy gingerly knocked on the office door. His shift was over but he still wore the burger bar uniform; cheap black polyester slacks and a top that looked like it was styled for a puppet in Thunderbirds. Billy was seated behind his desk. It was piled with paperwork. It always was; none of it ever seemed to move.

Billy wasn’t much older than most of his staff. He wouldn’t turn thirty for another eighteen months. He had been in the burger business for years. The work suited his personality and gave him ample opportunities to feed his appetite. The increasing number of foreign workers coming to London were especially to his taste.

Timothy wasn’t “foreign”, he was London born and bred. So were his parents and their parents before him. He was a bright lad and was working at the bar during university holidays.

“Do you admit falsifying the timesheets?” Billy knew he had, but he would still like a confession.

“Yes, boss. Sorry.”

Billy grinned lasciviously. He should demand that the money be repaid and once that was done he should sack Timothy’s arse. But, he wouldn’t. Billy wouldn’t sack his arse, but he would give his arse a damn good spanking.

“I think you know what happens now,” Billy spoke softly. He never spanked in anger. He took his time. He relished every moment.

Timothy knew. The youngster had a spanking fetish for as long as he could remember. He dreamed about it most nights. The latest involved his mother. Timothy’s grades were poor, so he was over her knee, his pyjama bottoms at his feet while mother hammered her hairbrush into his naked buttocks. In the dreams he wasn’t a kid, he was his real age; twenty-one.

Timothy would prefer to be spanked by a woman, and a matronly one at that. But beggars can’t be choosers, so Billy would have to do.  His boss opened a desk drawer and reached inside. He withdrew a solid wooden ruler. He rose from his chair, navigated the desk and stood in the centre of the room. “Bring that over here,” he indicated a worn wooden chair with a straight back that stood against a wall.

It was heavier than it looked, but Timothy soon had it in position. Then, Billy sat down and spread his legs. “Now, get over here.” He pointed to his right side, indicating that Timothy was to stand there. He did. His heart was thumping and he was certain his face was scarlet. He had often dreamed of being spanked, but apart from a bit of a fumble with a girl at university, he was a spanking virgin.

“Lower your trousers, boy.” Timothy blanched. He had thought he wanted this so much, but now at this last minute he was not so sure. He was losing his nerve. He stood rooted. “Down,” Billy repeated pointing with a bony finger. “Right now.”

Still, Timothy did not move. “Pah!” Billy expelled air through nearly clenched teeth. He pulled the young man toward him and quickly unfastened his black polyester trousers. Timothy felt the static electricity crackle as they slid over his thighs and rested at his knees. Billy gripped them again and guided them to Timothy’s feet.

Billy paused to admire the bulge in the front of Timothy’s briefs. They fitted snugly and the outline of the young man’s cock was clearly seen. Billy noted with disappointment that Timothy’s cock was cut. He skinned the briefs past his knees and smiled as the cock bounced up and down in front of his face. It wasn’t erect, but nor was it fully limp.

“Over my knee,” he quietly ordered, and fearing Timothy would be reluctant, he gripped his right arm and guided him across his lap and helped him to settle into place. Timothy stared down at the hard industrial strength carpet. It needed Hoovering, he noticed. The rough carpet scratched his palms when he put the weight of his body on them. Behind him, the toes of his shoes rested comfortably on the ground. His knees were bent slightly and his bum lay at a forty-five-degree angle against Billy’s right leg. The boss gripped Timothy around the waist. He was going nowhere until Billy said so.


“This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, boy.” Billy liked that joke, he used it often, especially with first-timers. He kept his word as he lifted his strong right arm and whacked the heavy foot-long ruler into Timothy’s buttocks time and again until they turned bright red. Timothy kicked his legs. It was a reflex action He had no control of his body. Billy paused the spanking, forced the young man further forward and wrapped his right leg over Timothy’s calves. That stopped his kicking.


Billy’s target was now more accessible, and more vulnerable. He resumed spanking, hard and fast. Every time Timothy thought the target had gone numb, Billy found areas of the buttocks that were still tender until no part of Timothy’s backside was left unblistered. Satisfied that there was not a square inch of flesh left untoasted, Billy stopped. He hooked his leg away and released his grip on Timothy’s back. The twenty-one-year-old jumped to his feet. Billy roared with laughter. Timothy’s cock was rock hard and pointing up at the ceiling.


Billy didn’t immediately take it in his mouth. Instead, he poked out his tongue and started to lick up and down the iron-hard shaft, as if it was an ice lolly. He paused at the rim of the swollen head. He did this for minutes, while holding the dick tightly at the base. The cock was purple and ready to explode. Timothy was desperate to shoot. Billy ran his tongue in a circle all around the rim. Timothy balled his fists and curled his toes. Just as he thought he could stand it no longer Billy opened his mouth and the top half of Timothy’s cock slid smoothly inside.


Outside the office door Peter was ready to leave. His shift was over and he had changed back into his street clothes. As he turned toward the staff exit, he heard what sounded like a scream of anguish from Timothy. My God, Peter thought, the poor guy’s being tortured.




“Stand there, bend over. Touch your toes, it’s six of the best for you young man.” Dr Cains flexed the rattan curve-handled cane between his hands and then swished it at point on the floor in the middle of the room.

Peter eyed the cane apprehensively. He had never seen a school cane close up until that day. It was thin and whippy. He supposed as canes went it was at the lighter, milder end of the scale. Dr Cains swiped the cane through the air once more. “I am waiting Wharton, I am waiting.”

Peter’s heart thumped so loud he was sure Dr Cains could hear it from the other side of the room. His hands were trembling. Taking care not to catch his punisher’s eye, he stepped forward, took a deep breath and bent from the waist. Touching his toes was harder than he expected; it put a terrible strain on the calves.

He concentrated hard on the stained carpet beneath his feet. He felt the cane being tapped across the middle of his stretched bum. The Terylene cloth of his grey short trousers clung to his buttocks. His green-and-gold diagonally-striped tie dangled in front of his eyes. He clenched his mouth shut, waiting for the fearsome sting of the first stroke.

Peter had travelled to London to stay with his uncle wanting new experiences. But this wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he left his tiny town in Dorset.

Peter, Albert and Nickie had met in a pub in Soho. It was one of Nickie’s regular haunts. It was a “gay bar.” Peter never knew such things existed. It was packed and guys that Nickie knew came to their table, chatted and moved on. Peter thought Nickie had a lot of friends.

“So do you want to come to The Whacko! Club next week, Pierre?” Nickie sucked on a bottle of designer lager.

Peter looked puzzled; he had forgotten their earlier conversation.

“Whacko! The CP club.” And when Peter still looked baffled, he explained. “CP. Corporal punishment.”

Now Peter remembered.

“I thought that was a joke.”

“No. They meet every Saturday. It’s been going on for years.”

Peter remained silent.

Nickie was a man on a mission. He wasn’t going to leave the bar until he had made a sale. “There are lots of people who go. They’re a great bunch of pals.” He studied Peter’s reaction. He hadn’t known the teenager for long, but he had detected a spark behind the eighteen-year-old’s eyes when Peter had caned him over the wine incident. He could be converted to the cause.

“Thing is, they are mostly middle-aged fellows, or old.” He rolled the word “old” around his tongue, as if he were describing a group of rare, rather absurd, creatures from Papua New Guinea. “So, every so often they bring in a group of youngsters to play with.”

Peter flushed scarlet and examined the label on his Labatts intently. He didn’t want to hear this. He knew where Nickie was going. It scared him a little.

Until he had come to London, Peter had never received corporal punishment. Then within a week of his arrival he had been beaten with a riding crop by Aunt Martha and taken across Uncle Barnabas’s knee for a spanking with a slipper on his bare bottom.

He had ejaculated into a pillow even while Aunt Martha was still lashing his buttocks. He hadn’t disgraced himself in that way with Uncle Barnabas, but afterwards he had a sensation he had never felt before. He didn’t understand it and he couldn’t describe it. It was as if his head had never been so clear. It was a kind of euphoria, an ecstasy. He had never felt so “good” before. He wasn’t much of a drinker and never had the chance to take drugs, so he wasn’t sure if he was on some kind of “high.”

It worried him and excited him in equal measure. He might not know “what” had happened to him, but he did know “how.” Corporal punishment turned him on.

“So the guys at Whacko! have themed parties,” Nickie continued. “One time it was Boy Scouts, another, no surprise here, it was schools and headmasters. One time we dressed up as footballers. They talk about managers giving their players the ‘hairdryer’ treatment; we got the ‘hairbrush’ treatment,” he giggled, knowing it was a lame joke.

Peter swigged at his beer too quickly. It went down the wrong hole and he coughed so violently Nickie thought he might choke to death.

After Peter had recovered, Nickie carried on. “We’re doing schools again.” He nudged Peter playfully in the arm. “You will go down a treat. You even look like a real schoolboy.” He hesitated, “No offence. You could tell them you were still at a school. It’s nearly true, you’ve only just left. They would blow a fuse.”

Nickie was babbling now. “And, if you let on that you just had a spanking for real from your uncle, they’d all want to adopt you as a nephew.”

Nickie paused, trying to gauge Peter’s reaction. His new friend’s eyes were glazed, but he knew it wasn’t caused by the beer.

“Oh, did I say?” Nickie lent in so close Peter could smell his beery breath. “No sex. They can’t do sex. CP is all right, sex is against the law. Nothing like that happens …” he trailed off. He knew he wasn’t quite telling the truth. All sorts of things happened after club night ended, but that was in the privacy of people’s own homes.

“Oh and,” he hoped this might be the fact that would seal the deal, “the money’s fantastic. Bugger filling shelves at Tesco.”

Later that night in his bedroom at Uncle Barnabas’s, Peter replayed the night in his head. He had given Nickie the brush-off. The Whacko! Club was too dangerous. Letting complete strangers spank and cane you. What was Nickie thinking? His new friend insisted that there was no danger. The guys had rules and they kept to them. Nobody did anything they didn’t want to, Nickie had said emphatically. And besides, he wouldn’t be on his own, there were usually seven or eight youngsters at the party – there was safety in numbers.

Peter had a fitful sleep. He woke at about three with a raging hard-on. His cock ached so much it was about to burst. If he hadn’t woken in time he would have soiled the sheets. He ran into his private bathroom and unfurled a yard of toilet paper. His hand made several frantic tugs along the full length of his bursting cock. His body juddered as pints of cum soaked into the tissue.

He washed his dick and staggered back to the bed. He couldn’t get back to sleep. He usually never remembered his dreams, but this one haunted him. It had been vivid, precise. He remembered every detail clearly. He was back at school. In the headmaster’s study. The old man was dressed in academic gown and mortar board. In his hand he gripped an awesome thick crook-handled cane. In front of him bent across the back of an armchair was Peter. His pale-grey long trousers were at his feet; his white Y-fronts at the knees. His bared-bottom was raw with red welts. The headmaster raised the cane and flogged it down into the naked haunches; over and over and over again.

Two days later, which was the next time that he met Nickie, Peter put his name down for The Whacko! Club.

It was lust at first sight the moment Dr Cains clapped eyes on Peter. Dr Cains – it wasn’t his real name – was one of the organisers at The Whacko! They met at the pub in Soho. The boy sitting before him was a thing of beauty. Was he really eighteen years old? Dr Cains wondered to himself. Later, he would ask for some proof of his age. The club couldn’t break the law.

Peter had not dressed up for the occasion. He wore his yellow tee-shirt and blue cotton shorts and flip-flops on his feet. Much of this was hidden below the table away from De Cains’s gaze. What the elderly man did see was a young fresh-faced boy. He tried not to peer too intently, but had the delightful creature yet started shaving? He was so slender most people would say he was “skinny;” he had the body of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old. His dark brown eyes would melt the stoniest of hearts and that haircut: it was straight out of the nineteen-forties.

Dr Cain couldn’t see the boy’s bum – Peter was sitting on it – but he knew instinctively it would be pert and deliciously spankable.

The meeting was supposed to be an “interview;” as if Peter had applied for a proper job. There was no need for that, Dr Cains had already decided. The only question he had was, “When can you start?”

The answer delighted him. “Any time,” Peter swigged at his Coca-Cola, a little taken aback by his own confidence.

“What size waist are you Peter?” The question startled the boy. Dr Cains was thinking of the Whacko! Club’s extensive range of costumes. He was pretty sure they didn’t have a pair of short trousers small enough to fit the boy.


Twenty-six-inch waist. Dr Cains gasped. “Dear boy, I can buy you short trousers at the children’s department of John Lewis. Do you have a school blazer? No, I suppose they are all back home in Dorset. Don’t worry,” Dr Cains was talking to himself, “I will kit you out. White Y-fronts? No, I don’t suppose so.”

He leaned over to Nickie, “Bring him to my flat at three o’clock for an audition. Don’t be late. Don’t be drunk.” With that Dr Cains rose from his seat and trilled, “I must fly. To John Lewis, I must fly!”

Peter sipped at his Coca-cola and Nickie swigged at a bottle of over-priced tasteless Mexican beer.

It was three-fifteen. Peter was dressed in smart mid-grey short trousers. They fitted him perfectly; John Lewis had served him well. They were a little longer than the summer cotton shorts he had been wearing; they fell to about an inch above the knees.

His gleaming white shirt was too big and hung loose at the neck. He pulled a striped tie up tight. Dr Cains had produced a fancy green blazer with gold braiding. The badge said it was from St Francis Independent Grammar; a real school, apparently.

He pulled on long grey knee socks. They were woolen and in the heat of the summer’s afternoon, they itched his legs. He had no “regulation” black lace-up shoes, so they decided to go without.

Dr Cains dressed his part as well. Peter stared in wonder. The old man had gone to enormous trouble with his costume. He had a heavy tweed jacket and old black trousers with thick grey stripes. Across his back was a tattered academic gown. A mortar board cap with a tassel at the back perched precariously on his head. But the piece-de-resistance was his shirt. It was a grubby off-white colour held together at the neck by a cardboard wing collar.

They stood in an ordinary sitting room. There was a cheap vinyl settee, one armchair and a dining room table with matching chairs. No attempt was made to disguise the room as a headmaster’s study.

“We shall call you Harry Wharton,” Dr Cains said pleasantly. He paused; Peter did not recognise the name.

“We call Nickie, ‘Bob Cherry,’” he continued. Still Peter was uncomprehending. “Bah,” Dr Cains ejaculated. “You young people today, you know nothing.” He was genuinely upset that the heroes of his childhood (and indeed continuing into his adulthood) were unknown to the younger generation.

“Sorry, who are they?” Peter’s question was genuine.

“Go to a library. Find out yourself!” Dr Cains barked.

He was genuinely irritated with the teenager. The numbskull deserved six-of-the-best for his ignorance. It might add a little authenticity to the proceedings.

“Stand there, bend over. Touch your toes, it’s six of the best for you young man.” The audition had begun. Peter understood. Dr Cains had said they didn’t want a “newbie” as he called him to flunk it at the club; to “bottle it” at the last minute. They had to be sure Peter had the fortitude to take Six.

Peter stretched his fingertips to touch his feet. It put a strain on his knees. “Spread your legs by a foot or so, it will make it easier.” Dr Cains’s instructions were helpful. Soon, Peter had maneuvered himself into position.

Dr Cains took his time. It really was a perfect bum. He had caned many arses over the years. Truthfully, most of them on offer at The Whacko! Club were well-covered. No, Dr Cains thought, that was being overly-polite; they were fat. He wondered if a caning hurt more if you had a fat bottom? Were there more nerve ends for the cane to strike?

Not everyone at The Whacko! was fat. There had been one guy whose buttocks were non-existent. He had legs that disappeared up into his back. His bum was almost perfectly flat. Now, he thought about it, Dr Cains reckoned caning would probably hurt more on a small bum. There wasn’t much area to aim at and the cane would land time and again on the same spot. Yes, that would hurt terrifically.

Peter’s bum wasn’t so small that the old man would be able to land six cuts across it and not land two in the same place. It depended, of course, if Peter could stay still and “take it like a man.”

They would soon find out. Dr Cains found his target and tapped the tip of the cane gently across the taut Terylene. He let fly. There was a tremendous crack as the cane hit home. There was something about man-made fibres that amplified the sound of cane against trousers. It made a much duller thwack when aimed into a backside covered by wool.

Peter’s fingers sprung from his toes and he half lifted his body, intent on standing to rub his bum. But, he realised his mistake and he steadied himself just in time. He resumed his submissive position, ready for number two.

Dr Cains landed it just an inch below the first. Peter’s eyes scrunched up. He felt that. His backside throbbed.

“Stand up.”

Peter hadn’t expected this. He had been told it would be ‘’six-of-the-best.”

“Shorts down. Bend back over.”

Peter frowned. Of course, the guys would want to go further than the trousers.

He surprised himself by his calmness. The short trousers had a half-elasticated waist, so he needed no belt. He undid the metal clasp at the top and let them slither down his legs to his feet. Then he took a deep breath and bent over.

He felt Dr Cains tug at the waistband of his Y-fronts. He was making sure there were no creases in the pants and they clung to his buttocks like a second skin. While the “doctor” busied himself, Peter studied the label inside his shorts intently. It said they were, “15 years sturdy fit.” Which school made its fifteen-year-old pupils wear short trousers? Peter didn’t know of any. Not even the very posh schools in Dorset did that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a searing pain across the top of his buttocks. He expelled air through clenched teeth. It sounded like a car tyre puncturing. That stroke was the worse yet. The others had throbbed, this one burned.

So did the next. He now had four lines of pain in a band from the top of his bum to the crown. It hurt, an authentic caning was supposed to after all, but Peter felt OK. He was on top of this.

“Stand up. Pants down.”

Peter had expected this. It was two-two-two. Two on the shorts, a couple on the pants and the last ones on the bare. He hitched his thumbs in the top of his pants and pushed them to his knees. As he bent over the force of gravity helped the Y-fronts slip to his feet.

His heart raced; he recalled the vivid dream with him bare-arsed over the armchair in the headmaster’s study. His head buzzed. In his half-naked state his cock and balls were inches from his face. He hoped he could hold out. It wasn’t the pain of the punishment that troubled him. He didn’t feel embarrassed that he was showing an older man his bare buttocks, crack and hole. But, it would be deeply humiliating if his cock sprang to attention now.

Dr Cains paused to admire his handiwork. There were four lines across Peter’s buttocks. A couple were quite red, but he knew he wasn’t beating the teenager with any force. His strokes would make the boy gasp a little, but they wouldn’t do much damage. The marks would clear quickly and he would have unblemished buttocks before “showtime” on Saturday.

He put the final two on the underside of Peter’s bum, where the cheeks met the thighs. “Hissssss.” They hurt. He wriggled his hips and held tightly onto his ankles as the pain travelled from his buttocks up and down his legs. Blood rushed to his brain.

When instructed, he rose to a standing position. His dreamy brown eyes were damp, but he was far from crying. He clutched his hands to his burning bum and hopped about. Dr Cains watched lovingly. What a dish Peter was to set before any king – or, indeed, queen.

He pulled up his short trousers and pants. The intense agony he felt as the cane impacted his stretched pert buttocks had already gone. He felt a warm glow across his seat. His mind was clear. He grinned at Dr Cain in his old-fashioned schoolmaster’s costume. What ridiculous sights they both were. What fun they would have together.

“Please sir, have I passed the audition?” he beamed.

“Oh yes, dear boy. Oh yes.”

Peter’s heart raced with excitement. This was turning out to be a summer to remember.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Changed times 2: Neighbourhood watch

used drawing birch hold (2)


Changed Times 1: A glimpse into the near future is here

Mr Scroggins contemplated the two teenagers who stood before him. The young people today, he sneered silently. The two boys shuffled from foot to foot, heads bowed. If they had dared look up Mr Scroggins would have seen the terror in their eyes.

Three other men stood close by. They were Mr Scroggins’s back up. If the two nineteen year olds tried to make a break for it, they were on hand to restrain them.

Mr Scroggins knew the two boys by repute. They were part of a gang of hooligans who refused to obey the new Teenage and Young Persons Act. They defied curfews, they drank alcohol and smoked dope in public. They dressed lewdly in skimpy clothes. They thought they were above the law.

Well, they were about to be corrected on that.

Mr Scroggins hated young people and he despised the two boys in front of him more than most. What did they look like? Both were bare chested. At least they hadn’t disfigured their bodies with tattoos as so many young people in the past had done, Mr Scroggins thought. These two were smooth skinned and hairless.

They wore sports shorts so short they hardly covered their buttocks. They were so tightly fitting at the crotch, Mr Scroggins could see the outline of the tip of their penises. It looked like one might not be wearing underpants. The other certainly was. The waistband of his green Calvin Klein briefs poked above the top of the shorts.

One boy had mousy brown hair. It hadn’t seen a barber’s in a very long time; a fringe fell over the boy’s eyes like a Dulux dog. At the back it fell to his shoulders The other lad had shaggy hair over his ears and down his neck. Their “look” was quite deliberate. The hooligans’ “fashion” harked back to the nineteen-eighties; the days when young people were free. Before the country left the European Union and the New Democrats took control.

Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, “to take back the streets.” The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb. It was a street that didn’t need “taking back” from anyone. Nevertheless, the good citizens patrolled the adjoining areas, rounding up trouble-makers.

They didn’t conform to the letter of the law, but to the spirit. The teenagers should by rights have been taken to a police station and then before the magistrates. The court would in all probability sentence them to a birching. The Neighbourhood Watch was simply cutting out the middle men.

They had a “punishment room” at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.

What happened next, of course, was anything but.  But, no amount of writhing or jerking, inevitable during a birching, would harm the boy’s bare hips and stomach as he moved about on the padded leather.

At this time there were twelve birch rods soaking in brine in plastic buckets. The two boys would not be the Neighbourhood Watch’s only customers that day.

“You first,” Mr Scroggins pointed to the boy in the tight red shorts; the one with the longest hair. Mr Scroggins did not know his name and didn’t care to know. In his mind he was an animal, not a human being. The boy’s look of terror satisfied the Punishment Office enormously. The boy stood rooted.

“Bill. Tony,” Mr Scroggins nodded towards two of the guards. No more needed to be said. Each took one arm and manhandled the teenager through the door into the punishment room. The boy hated the vigilantes as much as they hated him. His struggle was futile. He tried to dig in his heels but he lost his flip-flop shoes and his bare feet could make no traction on the cold floor tiles.

In one well-rehearsed movement Bill and Tony had him face down over the horse. The buckles of the leather straps bit deep into his wrists and across his back. His stomach rested on the padded leather top and his backside was raised at a perfect angle to receive slashes from the birch.

The two men made their preparations in silence. Tony gripped the waist of the boy’s snug-fitting shorts and briefs with both hands and ripped them over the boy’s buttocks and down his legs. He took them over his feet and contemptuously threw them into a corner of the room. The nineteen-year-old was now completely naked across the horse. His entire body, except the small area around his buttocks, was suntanned chestnut brown.

The boy had not uttered a word. He wouldn’t plead for mercy. Let the bastards do their worst. The work of the Neighbourhood Watch was well known among the young people in the area. The boy wouldn’t be the first to be birched by them and he wouldn’t be the last. Others in his gang had been flogged by the ruthless Mr Scroggins. The scars they displayed were awful, but they had lived through their ordeal. So, the boy tried to convince himself, would he. He expected that later, when he displayed his wounds to his friends, he would be quite the hero.

The boy wanted to believe that.  But his throat was dry, his legs shook uncontrollably and his stomach lurched with such sickening fear he thought he would vomit. His brain was feverish with the enormity of what was to come. The horse, the straps, the birch, all threateningly combined for an attack on his fragile body.

The boy felt a breeze against his naked flesh as the door to the punishment room opened once more. Mr Scroggins had entered. He scrutinised the boy with eyes ablaze with venomous hostility. The boy wasn’t very tall and his body was firm and lean. The buttocks were quite the smallest Mr Scroggins had ever encountered. That would prove a challenge. It would be impossible to deliver a birching without whipping across the same area of the boy’s bum more than once. The damage to his arse would be terrific.

Mr Scroggins was a tall beefy man. He had in his time been a keen prop at rugby. He had recently returned to the gym to build up his muscles. He took his duties as Punishment Officer very seriously indeed.

He approached the nearest bucket and withdrew a birch rod and swished it, shaking the water off the branches. It had eight branches, each about three feet in length, all held together by sticking plaster at one end.

The boy saw none of this. His only view was of the side of the wooden horse and the old scratched grey floor tiles. His view was blurred by the tears prickling behind his eyes.

He felt the gentle touch of splaying twigs on his backside, followed by two swishes as the birch lightly touched the fleshiest part of his small round buttocks. Then the rod drew back and hit him. He couldn’t hear it coming and when the birch connected he felt the dampness of the twigs but no pain. Then, his backside lit up. Twenty seconds later the rod fell again. By the fourth stroke the boy was lurching both to the left and the right, straining to break free of the straps. Tears flowed down his face. By now the strokes were penetrating his flesh fully; he was being cut to ribbons.

The next stroke came down hard, it was the worst stroke yet. The fine wet tips of the rod splayed out to contact with his entire bottom. The boy ground his molars hard. Each new stroke was hurting more than the one before. The next pushed all the breath out of him and he lay across the horse panting and squirming.

Mr Scroggins paused to admire his handiwork. As he had expected, the birch rods had connected over and over again on the same small area. The boy’s arse was criss-crossed with small cuts. Blood was seeping from many of them. His bum reminded Mr Scroggins of the minced meat he regularly bought from the butcher’s.

There was a deathly hush in the Punishment Room apart from the swish and crack of the birch rods and the boy’s continuous howls and sobs. The agony was so much worse than he had expected. Another wicked stroke swished into his bum, the impossible sting once more taking his breath away. When he got it back he was screaming at the top of his voice for it to stop. He bucked and twisted frantically.

Mr Scroggins didn’t care. He hated the naked boy, restrained, buttocks high to receive his whipping. He hated all young people. Every one of them. Without exception. The next stroke was delivered with all his weight behind it and was the most vicious yet. The boy howled! His body shook violently; he struggled relentlessly to no avail. The thick leather straps were doing their job. Any pride or attempt to show toughness had fled; his bottom was in flames and the scolding birch continued to hiss and lash, flogging his bare buttocks unmercifully.

Then it stopped. “That’s it. Twelve. If you’re ever back here again, it’ll be twice as many.” Mr Scroggins kicked pieces of broken twig from beneath his feet and retuned the broken birch rod to the bucket.

The boy gradually ceased his screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness and eventually an eerie silence and stillness enveloped the room. Only the picture of a beaten boy, stretched naked across a vaulting horse, remained.


Changed Times 3: The Office will be published on 26 August 2016


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The hotel room

Jonjo strode up the hotel steps clutching his carrier bag. He eased his pace a little to ensure the automatic door really did open. Then, head down and not looking to left or right, he crossed the lobby heading for the familiar elevators. One was ready and waiting. He got in and punched number fifteen.

While the cage lumbered heavenwards, he checked himself out in the mirror. He liked what he saw. He had just had a very close shave. With a proper razor, not an electric job. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully: yes, as smooth as a rent boy’s bottom.

He ran his fingers through his unfashionably short brown hair, deliberately dishevelling it. He practiced his broad grin. Great teeth. White and even. Not many of his friends could say the same about theirs. His hazel eyes conveyed just a hint of boyish shyness.

The elevator pinged and the door opened. Turn left at the elevator and follow the corridor around a couple of bends. Room 1517 was near the end. He had been given detailed instructions. He didn’t need them. He had lots of practice finding hotel rooms.

He knocked on the door and stood back a pace so that the occupant could get a good look at him through the spy-hole. “Who is it?” The question surprised Jonjo. He was expected.

“It’s Jonjo, Mr Smith,” he said in a normal speaking voice. He waited while the safety chain was removed and the lock turned. The door opened.

“Come in quickly,” Mr Smith stood away from the door to let his visitor enter. “Mr Smith.” In his fifties, running to fat a bit. A little sweaty. Some kind of middle to senior manager in a company most people had never heard of. And cared less about.

Mr Smith closed the door and reset the chain. They would not be disturbed.

Mr Smith had no inclination for small talk. “You can change in there.” He nodded toward the bathroom. Jonjo entered the bathroom. It only took a minute. There wasn’t much to do. Off came his jacket, chinos and tee-shirt. On went the grey short trousers, grey socks, white shirt and school tie. Jonjo, aged twenty-one, masquerading as a nine-year-old.

He ran the cold tap, cupped his hands and scooped up water and drank. He ruffled up his hair one more time. He was ready. He took a deep breath and exited the bathroom. Showtime.

Mr Smith was standing at the far end of the room. Jonjo stood by the bathroom door waiting; submissively, remorsefully. Nothing happened. Mr Smith stared, dazed. A little astonished. Jonjo clasped his fingers behind his back and shuffled from one foot to the other. His naughty boy pose.

Eventually, Mr Smith came to. He didn’t know what to say. He had no script. Jonjo helped things along. “I’ve been a nawty likkle boy,” he simpered, twisting his fingers.

“Yes, you have. Naughty boy.” Sweat began running down the man’s back. His heartbeat raced. What a delicious sight it was to behold.

“You know what happens to naughty boys don’t you?”

“Sorry, daddy.” More simpering. Jonjo wished Mr Smith would get on with it.

He didn’t have long to wait. Mr Smith sat on the bed, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and croaked, “Come here and bend over my knee. You naughty, naughty boy.”

Jonjo walked across the room and without missing a beat laid himself across Mr Smith’s podgy legs. The boy stretched his torso across the mattress and let his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom was strategically placed over Mr Smith’s crotch. A faint whiff of bleach from the bed linen made him want to gag.

Slap. Slap. Two smacks landed, one on each cheek. “Ouch. Owww!” Jonjo was putting on the style. More slaps. More fake cries.

Slap, smack, spank. On and on Mr Smith hammered his hand into the seat of Jonjo’s short trousers.

“Pah! This is useless,” Mr Smith’s hand was hurting much more than Jonjo’s bum. “Stand up.”

Jonjo climbed off Mr Smith’s knees and stood. Ready for round two.

The man picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat down and with the crooked index finger of his right hand he beckoned the boy to stand by his side. “These are coming down young man,” he whispered. It seemed to Jonjo that he had pretty much lost his voice. The man unfastened Jonjo’s short trousers and tugged them to the floor. His eyes popped at his first sight of Jonjo’s cock and balls, encased in tight white cotton underpants.

“These too.” His hands quivered as he took hold of the elasticated waist and pulled the pants down slowly, revealing the boy’s floppy penis. Even when limp it was impressive. And, oh joy, it was uncut. Mr Smith’s own cock stiffened.

zused school cane pantz down (10)

Jonjo gazed over Mr Smith’s shoulder. Not wanting to look him in the eye. “Bend over my knee,” it was a clear instruction, but Mr Smith gave Jonjo no time to comply. Instead, he gripped him by the right elbow and guided the boy across his knee. He was inept. Jonjo had to stretch out his arm to break his fall. It jerked his shoulder.

“Ow!” he cried out. It was the only real pain he had felt so far.

Jonjo settled himself and waited. They could hear voices in the corridor; right outside the room. Was somebody about to come in? If they had, they would have seen a forty-something man, sweating profusely. Across his knee was a twenty-one-year-old schoolboy. His short trousers and underpants at his feet and his bared bottom strategically placed ready to receive the damn good spanking that the naughty brat deserved.

The sound of a door opening and closing was followed by silence. They were not going to be discovered. Mr Smith took hold of the tail of Jonjo’s gleaming white shirt and slowly folded it up the boy’s back until it cleared the target area. The boy was naked from his feet to nearly his shoulders. Mr Smith didn’t notice that not only was Jonjo’s bum as bald as a baby’s, so were his legs. Jonjo took pride in his work.

The boy felt Mr Smith’s cock pressing into his own stomach. It stiffened further as the man cupped the palm of his right hand and using small circular motions caressed the soft flesh of Jonjo’s buttocks. They were not “buns of steel”, there was plenty of “give” in them. Just the way Mr Smith liked his boys.

Slap, slap, slap. This time without his short trousers and underpants for protection, Jonjo felt it. His bottom palpitated and trembled below the onslaught. Mr Smith spanked with vigor. Soon Jonjo’s bum was a deep pink colour, with the imprints of Mr Smith’s firm, fat fingers visible in many places. He panted and gritted his teeth together as Mr Smith’s hand wandered across his throbbing bottom, seeking out fresh, unblemished flesh to assault. Jonjo’s bare buttocks were soon as rosy and glowing as the setting sun.

He stammered out the lame line, “I’m sorry, daddy.” Then, howling like a ham actor, he twisted across his knees, as if trying to escape the barrage of smarting swats that rained down. His short trousers and pants snagged at his ankles, making it hard to move.

Mr Smith’s pulse hammered in his head as adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream. Mouth dry, he licked his lips, eyes wide and stared at the glowing bottom across his lap. For ten long minutes he struck Jonjo’s bottom with his flat hard hand again and again. At long last it stopped. He could not keep it up any longer. His cock was throbbing much more than the delicious boy’s bum.

“Get up.” Mr Smith released his grip from the boy’s waist and Jonjo rolled off the man’s lap. He knelt in front of his punisher. Ready, for round three.

The man was unsteady on his feet. Exhausted by the effort of spanking a young man’s arse. But, there was one more act to play out. He unbuckled his belt, released the button at his waist, lowered his zipper and tugged both his trousers and pants to his knees. His cock was pointing right in Jonjo’s face.

The boy gazed lovingly at Mr Smith. His beautiful hazel eyes kidded the man that Jonjo had never seen anything so wonderful before in his life. In truth it was smaller than most. He grinned and displayed those perfect white teeth, then stuck out his tongue and licked the man’s shaft.

Moments later Jonjo had Mr Smith’s penis inside his mouth; thrusting roughly. It wasn’t there for long. Nobody was keeping time but within seconds the man shot his load. Jonjo only just got the lump of gristle out of his mouth in time.

It was over and time to go. Jonjo returned to the bathroom, repeated the hand cupping and rinsed his mouth with water. Then, he took the mouthwash he always carried to jobs, gargled and spat. He repeated the performance three times until his throat burned. He undressed and put on his street clothes.

He left the bathroom and picked up a white envelope from the nightstand. It had the hotel’s name on it. He opened it and carefully counted the banknotes within. Satisfied that he had not been cheated, he left the room without a word to Mr Smith.

He retraced his steps to the elevator, descended to the ground floor, crossed the lobby and exited the hotel. It was a cold evening. He hurried through the streets anxious to catch his bus back to the university halls of residence. He still had an essay on entrepreneurship to finish by the morning.

Other stories you might like.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys. Howard’s story

The fire-raiser

The sneak thief



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

used drawing cane hold master (3)

I very much admired young Macey’s pluck. He took a full headmaster’s six-of-the-best. I was there, I witnessed it and I know he did not have to submit himself to the cane. He might be American, but he was a young gentleman.

Macey was a new addition to our sixth-form. He was an exchange student from Florida. His father was the well-known actor in the television series about Oliver Cromwell. Macey brought a little glamour to our dour little community.

I suppose Bankhurst is a middling public school. It’s not as well-known as Eton or Harrow, but it has a fine reputation amongst the moneyed class of England who want a good private education for their sons.

We believe in traditional education: traditional teaching; traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. And, here at Bankhurst that means the swishy rattan cane.

Macey was a fine fellow, everybody liked him; the boys and the masters alike. When he first arrived he had a deep suntan which contrasted greatly with the pasty pale faces of the English. His clothes were of the finest quality and I believe his shoes might have been hand-made. The war might have ended more than ten years previously but England remained mired in austerity. The shelves in the shops, even in the expensive West End of London, remained almost empty.

One might have thought the boys would have resented him; but no. With all the American television series and films (or movies, as I believe they are called) we received it seemed every eighteen-year-old boy wanted to be a “Yank.”

Macey always had a sunny disposition; his smile lit up my schoolroom. I always looked forward to classes when he was there.

He was in my boarding house. Every evening it was my duty to ensure all the boys were safely tucked up in bed. I liked to pop my head round the door of the senior dormitory at about nine-thirty. Macey was usually changing into his pyjamas at that hour.

I do not believe Macey had experienced boarding school life before. All of my charges would have been boarders somewhere or other since the age of eight. They were used to the routine. Get up when you are told; go to bed when you are told. Do this; do that.

We have to have rules. That is how we maintain order. And that is why we must have punishments for those who disobey them.

Macey was an energetic fellow. Bedtime at nine-forty-five must have seemed preposterously early for him. I would not be surprised if back home in Florida he did not carouse until the early hours some nights. I believe the acting fraternity like to party.

I did understand his predicament; but as I say rules must be obeyed. And, I have no doubt in my mind that he was the instigator of the little jolly that ended with he and three other fellows staring at the carpet in the headmaster’s study.

They must have known they would be caught. How could they not be?

The plan such as it was proved easy to execute. They left their dormitory, tip-toed down the main staircase and let themselves out the front door.  Bankhurst is not a prison. Within seconds they were through the school gates and on their way to the village hall.

It was the lure of dancing that did it. Or more accurately, I suppose, the prospect of girls. I have no way of knowing exactly what transpired at the hall and I would rather not know. I have little doubt that Macey would have been something of a “hit” that evening.

Macey and his three chums rumbled back at school at one-thirty in the morning; high on the excitement of their little jaunt. They might have returned to their room undetected were it not for Wilson, an aging colleague of mine. He is obliged to visit the lavatory several times in the night.

As the boys’ housemaster I was informed the following morning. Usually, the housemaster would deal with transgressions among the boys, but this breach of discipline was so severe I felt obliged to inform the headmaster.

“We have a problem,” the headmaster sighed. He stands at six-feet-two and is an imposing figure. It is difficult to believe that he would have any problem disciplining the boys; even the strapping eighteen-year-old rugby players.

I stared blankly and waited for the headmaster to elucidate.

“Macey is not technically a pupil at this school. He is what the Americans call an ‘exchange student’.”

My puzzled look seemed to annoy the headmaster.

“He is still a student of some school in Florida. He is subject to their disciplinary code,” the headmaster barked. Then he positively spat out these words, “He cannot be subjected to corporal punishment.”

I was as shocked as the headmaster. No corporal punishment. No cane. How on earth did they maintain order in their schools?

But, this was no time to debate comparative educational philosophies.

“We cannot beat the other three and leave Macey unbeaten.” The headmaster had hit the nail on the head. It was a conundrum.

I had an idea. “I suppose we could suspend all four boys.”

I wish I had not spoken. The headmaster glared at me and then ejaculated, “Suspension! Suspension! That is no solution. The examinations are but weeks away; they cannot miss school.”

His stare became intense. “Besides, where would Macey go? He is boarding here because there is nowhere else for him.”

I did not know until later, but at the same time the headmaster and I were pondering what to do, Macey and his three chums were themselves deep in conversation.

Silver, a particularly fine classicist, had surmised the situation. “It’ll be a bowing for sure,” he grimaced.

Knight, a dullard who was destined for a career in the Foreign Office, piped up, “It’ll be from the Beak. His canings are awesome.”

Knight was not speaking from personal experience, but the headmaster did have a deserved reputation as a flogger. He could lay a cane across a stretched backside like no other.

Page, a young man who was not acquainted with original thought, remained silent.

Macey smiled his wonderful toothsome grin. “They’re not allowed to cane me. There’s something in the rules from my school.”

His grin evaporated into a frown as three pairs of eyes bore into him. None of his chums said it aloud; but they all shared the same thought. “It was your idea to bunk off. We wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Now we get a Beak’s thrashing and you get off.”

Macey shrugged his shoulders sheepishly as if to say, “It’s not my fault, guys.”

I wasn’t aware of this conversation until much later.

A distant bell rang; it was time for first school. The headmaster dismissed me from his study and our problem remained unsolved.

I was sitting in my study at lunchtime when there was a timid knock on the door. I was not expecting a visitor. It is true that almost every lunchtime one wretched boy or another would be summonsed to my study. Two rattan canes – one thick and one thin – hung from their crook handles from a hat stand, always ready for action.

I called, “Enter!” and very slowly the door inched open but nobody entered the room. I was beginning to lose patience a little, when Macey’s head peered around the door.

His fresh open face that usually loved to smile seemed perplexed. He stood in the doorway shifting from foot to foot as if unsure what to do next.

“Come in Macey. Close the door behind you.” It was always a pleasure to see the boy; even in circumstances such as this.

I looked into his dreamy brown eyes. He was struggling to remember the words of a little speech he had rehearsed earlier.

“It’s about last night, Sir,” he stumbled. “Y’know. The breaking bounds.” He trailed off. I remained silent. I believed that he would get to the point in his own good time.

He found his place in his prepared script and launched himself into it. Breaking bounds had been his idea. He had persuaded the others to go. They were all equally guilty. He knew the rules about corporal punishment.

He could not quite catch my eye. “You can’t cane the other fellows and not cane me.” He stopped suddenly. He had finished. That was what he had come to say.

I suppressed a smile. In my many years as a schoolmaster I cannot recall a time when a pupil and certainly not an eighteen-year-old sixth-former had asked to be caned. One supposed that boys would usually prefer any other punishment than a bowing from the Beak.

Macey stared down at the carpet. His cheeks were rosy; partly a result of his usual ruddy good health and partly through the intense embarrassment that he felt.

“Thank you Macey. I shall convey your request to the headmaster. You are dismissed.”

He left the study at a rate of knots.

When I later informed the headmaster, he was a mightily relived man. He and I both believe in the efficacy of corporal punishment. A sound caning solves many problems. The four sixth-formers would receive six-of-the-best and the world would move on.

The headmaster asked that as the boys’ housemaster I witness the beatings. It was a request that I was pleased to accept.

So it was that at four-fifteen that afternoon, the headmaster, myself and four extremely anxious young men stood in the Beak’s spacious study.

There is little or no ritual to a headmaster’s thrashing. One by one they were required to stand in the middle of the room and then bend over and touch their toes. Their feet planted about eighteen inches apart; their knees straight and their bottoms raised submissively to receive the slash of the cane across their tightly-stretched pale-grey trousers.

They were expected to remain steadily in position until the headmaster instructed them to rise. Failure to do so would result in extra strokes.

A boy on the receiving end of a Beak’s bowing would be in intense agony. He was allowed to express pain through gasps and even the occasional “ooh” or “ouch!”, but he must not cry. It broke some unwritten code of honour to blub when beaten.

This was the first time I was privileged to witness a headmaster’s caning. He is some man. He dominates any room he enters. He is tall and up-right, slim but muscular. He has a presence which catches the attention. He has authority and is confidently in control of any situation.

Four pairs of eyes followed his progress across the study as first he disrobed his academic gown and then his jacket. This was to give him maximum movement in his swing.

Then, he removed from his trouser pocket a keyring and selected a small key which he used to unlock a narrow walnut cabinet in the corner of the study. He rummaged inside for a moment or two. I could not see inside but heard the distinct rattle of canes. He chose his weapon, tucked it under his arm and locked the cabinet door.

Four faces drained of blood as the headmaster swished the fearsome rod through the air. It was longer and a little thicker than the canes I have in my own study. I know from experience that my canes will inflict severe bruising on a boy’s backside if properly used. I wondered if the rod the headmaster was now flexing into a perfect arc between his hands could go further. It might easily draw blood.

The four sixth-formers stood to attention before the headmaster; thumbs in line with the seam of their pale-grey trousers. The school’s Officer Training Corps had taught them well.

The headmaster jawed them a little, but they knew they had broken the rules; they had been caught and punishment was expected.

The headmaster swished the cane through empty air as if testing its suitability. There was no need to do so, he had used this little beauty many times previously; he knew its power.

“Page, step forward,” it was a crisp command. He wobbled the cane at a spot on the carpet in the centre of the study. There was a sharp intake of breath from the three other boys as Page obeyed without question.

Swish! The cane flew once more. “Bend over.”

The dark-haired sixth former, whose physical maturity made him look much older than his eighteen years, stooped forward and gripped his shins tightly. From my vantage point I saw his full head of wavy black hair and the dark shadow on his jowls and chin. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips tightly together.

The headmaster rested the cane across the very centre of the tightly-presented buttocks. Then, he drew the cane high and twisting his waist and body he brought it crashing down at considerable force deep into the boy’s bottom. I imagine the headmaster is quite a star on the golf links.

Personally, when caning I prefer to use the wrist rather than the body. To use a different sporting analogy my technique resembles a cricket batsman sending the ball to the boundary for four runs.

Six times the cane rose and six times it bit deep into the meat of Page’s posterior. When he was permitted to rise, his face was as scarlet as I supposed his buttocks to be. His eyes shone and his hands were shaking. He resumed his position alongside the other three boys. He shuffled from foot to foot, desperately wishing to rub away at his scorching rear end. That would have to wait. It was another unwritten rule: no rubbing until you were dismissed the study.

Silver was next to step forward. His body was slender and well-toned. In an athletic movement he bent over and instead of resting his hands on his shins as Page had, he stretched his fingers until they reached the toes of his shiny black shoes. His knees were straight and in this position his buttocks strained against the tight cloth of his trousers. I saw the clear outline of his underpants.

Unlike his partner-in-crime Silver looked a little younger than his age. His short blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and very red lips gave him an effeminate look.

The headmaster had little to aim at, but that did not deter him. He brought six stingers down in quick succession. Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire resounding around the study. Poor Silver howled. There really is no other word to describe it. I believe the cane must have struck him on the same spot several times. The agony would have been immense and I am certain when later Silver and his fellows inspected the damage (as it were) they would find blood seeping from his wounds.

Silver hobbled to join his fellows.

There were only Knight and Macey left to deal with. Macey affected an air of insouciance. It was as if he had no cares in the world. He watched impassively as his two fellows were put through their paces. If he had not already understood the ways of the English public school, he was learning this afternoon.

Knight was far from carefree. He shook visibly as he followed the headmaster’s instruction to take up position. As Silver was thin and angelic, so Knight was fat and, frankly, ugly. A roll of fat slithered across his waistline as he doubled up his body for the headmaster’s administrations. Sweat poured down his fleshy jowls and his piggy eyes stared blankly at the varied green patterned carpet between his feet.

The headmaster was losing none of his strength and he brought his cane fizzing down across the fleshy target that was Knight’s bottom. Usually a cane would make a ringing crack as it struck and then bounced of tightly-presented flesh. Not this time. The headmaster’s swishy rattan hit home and then sank into jelly, resulting in a dull thud.

Until this moment I had never stopped to speculate whether the cane hurts more if whipped into a tight pert bottom when compared to huge fleshy mounds. Are there more nerve-ends to be attacked in a fat boy? I do not know the answer to this conundrum, but I can report that Knight felt every cut of the cane. He wriggled and squirmed as each swipe sank.

He suppressed the yelps he so desperately wanted to make so much that he choked. On command, he rose spluttering and coughing. He was still heaving and gasping for breath when Macey stepped forward.

Macey was tall and impeccably attired in perfectly fitting long pale-grey worsted trousers and freshly polished, shiny black shoes. His neatly parted short chestnut hair remained in place even as his head turned upside down to face the carpet. I suppose he must use some product from America.

The grey worsted material stretched extra tight as he bent right over, his fingers stretching to his toes, his legs held straight. He was ready to take his caning in the traditional posture that can only be really properly achieved by a strong and fit young man.

The headmaster paused and placed the cane on his leather-topped desk. Macey looked over his shoulder to see what was going on.

“Face the front boy!” the headmaster barked, “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough!”

With that the headmaster positively marched across his study to the cane cabinet, opened it, and extracted a fresh rod. I recognised it immediately. It was a Malacca. The densest cane known to a schoolmaster. It was thick, yet supple and had notches every three or four inches across its length. It was the kind of cane only to be used in the most exceptional circumstances.

The headmaster turned and faced Macey. He had a perfect view of the boy’s tightly-presented buttocks and long, slender legs. He could see the outline of the boy’s spine as it pressed against his crisp white cotton shirt.

The headmaster swished the Malacca through empty air. It made a tremendous swooshing sound. I think I blanched at the sight of it; certainly the three other sixth-formers who had endured a severe thrashing with a lesser cane stared in awe.

“Don’t think I don’t know you were the instigator of this little episode, Macey,” he intoned. “Or the ‘ring-leader’ I believe you Americans would call it.” The headmaster’s attempt at humour was ill judged. Nobody raised a smile.

Undeterred, the headmaster took up his position a little to the left of Macey’s waiting body.

“Brace yourself, Macey.”

There was a swipe and Macey was on fire. The heat spread out from the buttocks down his legs when the second cut lashed down, just an inch below the first one. Macey yelped as the searing agony of the cane got through to him.

I saw his face crease up. He clamped his teeth shut to stop further yells. His body convulsed, but miraculously he stayed bent over bottom high. His hands made fists and then he gripped tightly onto his ankles as if his very life depended on it.

The third stroke cut across his cheeks an inch above the first; there were now three throbbing lines of molten fire blazing. Then the fourth landed low down, right on the crease of his bottom, below the line of his underpants and close to where the bottom meets the thigh.

I watched transfixed as the headmaster landed a fifth swipe diagonally across the four seared welts, setting them all ablaze again.

Macey’s eyes shone but manfully he avoided tears as the headmaster lashed the last one from the opposite direction, making the poor sixth-former squirm and shudder.

I felt immense pride in the boy when he rose from the punishment position and hobbled over to join his companions lined against the study wall. None of the boys could bear to look at each other, but I knew that after this severe thrashing they would never be quite the same again. They would be companions in arms; they had endured an ordeal together. It would bond them for the rest of their lives.


Other school stories you might like.

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The Tyrant Headmaster. New beginnings

The cartoonist’s painful memory



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Changed times 1: A glimpse into the near future

Kenny Hawkins slipped on his new blazer and admired his reflection in the mirror. Pale-grey trousers, gleaming white shirt, striped tie, shiny black shoes. It looked exactly like his old school uniform. But, not quite. Only the badge on the blazer pocket was different. It showed the logo of Global Petroleum, the company that would change his life.

Kenny was a new apprentice at GP. He was delighted to get the job. Times were hard. If he kept his nose clean, worked hard and served his time, he thought he was made. Which was more than could be said for most people his age.

The country was still going through a difficult patch. It had started ten years in the past, in 2016. Britain had voted to leave the European Union. There was a political crisis. The government split, opposition parties – such as there were – had no idea. Immigrants fled back to their home countries. British Muslims hid out in their mosques. Everything was chaos.

Then a new group calling itself The New Democrats emerged from the shadows. Many people said it was the saviour of the nation. The New Democrats were poorly named, since the things they believed in; discipline, respect for order, deference to the Church, schools, and so on, were not new. They harked back to an imagined past when the country was at ease. Nor, were they particularly democratic. A wave of authoritarianism hit the country. Trade unions were suppressed; women were forced back into the home and sexual minorities were attacked.

The hardest hit were young people. Corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools to great acclaim from teachers and parents. So, it made perfect sense to extend it to colleges and universities. Soon, young apprentices at businesses were added to the list. In no time the law courts were sentencing young criminals to the birch.

People fell into line quickly. Order of a kind was restored. Young people were placed on curfews. Old people could walk the streets at night in safety.

A turning point came with a television soap opera called Northern Lights. It had been running for decades, long before the troubles started. It featured a cheeky-chappie character called Robbie. Robbie was in his twenties and lived his life close to the edge of the law. In one episode he gets caught stealing motor parts. He goes to court and the magistrate sentences him to eight stokes of the birch. Bare buttocks.

Then, they showed it. A birching. In all its glory. A huge bunch of twenty-four twigs sits soaking in brine in a metal bucket. Robbie is marched into the punishment room. Actors in soaps are usually not very good, but Robbie looks terrified. Then, viewers see a close up as the trousers and underpants come down and he is tied over a specially-made birching bench.

The prison guard is built like a brick out-house. He takes the heavy bundle of birch twigs, swishes it so droplets of brine fly all over the room. Then, he hauls the beast high above his head, twists his body as if he is teeing off at golf and flogs it down into Robbie’s naked haunches.

Robbie screams fit to shake the walls. The flogging continues. Whip-whip-whip!

At the end his buttocks are a bloodied mess. Torn to shreds. Robbie cannot walk and he is seen being dragged from the room by two uniformed officers.

And, all shown on television at eight o’clock in the evening.

In the past all the bleeding-heart liberals would have been on every news outlet denouncing the scene. Instead, a snap opinion poll showed nearly eighty percent of those questioned approved of real criminals being flogged. Half of those said they’d like to see it put out on live TV.

Television shows played a crucial part changing attitudes. Uni, a comedy-drama set in a fictional Midlands town, featured everyday students in typical situations. In one episode Jack is giving his parents a hard time. He is lazy, won’t get out of bed and misses lectures at university. His dad berates him about it and is rewarded by extensive pouting and sulking. Dad has had enough. One morning he calls his son down for breakfast, but the boy is too busy in bed playing with himself. Dad goes to the bathroom, collects a heavy wooden brush and bursts into the boy’s bedroom. Lots of laughs because Jack has been caught with his willie in his hand.

The laughs quickly turn to tears when dad hauls the duvet off the bed, grabs Jack by the hair, forces him face down on the bed and hammers away at the seat of his underpants with the brush. Jack’s howls echo around the room. In the street the camera catches a neighbour wondering where all the yelling is coming from.

The next scene is the following day. Jack is up early, polite to his parents, and heads off to university on time.

The show hit a nerve with parents. It seemed to give fathers permission to tackle their own idle sons. News programmes later reported an increase in sales of heavy bath brushes.

Kenny was nearly ready for his first day at the GP college. He would do a six-month full-time course, before returning to his office, based in London. GP had set him up with a place to stay. His landlord Mr Hart was a retired bank manager. Like so many other pensioners, even those from the professional classes, he had found it hard to make ends meet. Inflation ripped away at pensions and savings.

Hart was forced to take in a lodger. It helped put food on the table. The first thing the old man did was to spell out the rules. A curfew, no drinking, smoking or girls. Household chores to be done every day. He delighted in showing his new nineteen-year-old lodger the stout whippy rattan cane he kept hanging on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs.

“And, I won’t be backward in using it,” he told Kenny. The teenager believed him. He had met enough old people who despised the young.

It wasn’t legal for landlords to beat their tenants – not yet, at least. But Kenny would have no choice but to bend over for Mr Hart’s cane when the time came. If his landlord reported him to GP, that would be curtains for Kenny. No job. No future.

Kenny left his digs and took a bus to the college. It was full of older schoolchildren. All in smart uniforms. All wearing short trousers. Judging by the prefect badges many of them wore, they must have been at least eighteen. All of them put back into short trousers. It was happening all over the country. It was as if schools were saying, “We know we can humiliate you and there’s nothing you can do about it. So we shall.”

How could the boys complain? One word spoken out of place and it would be a six-of-the-best from the headmaster. On the bared bottom. Eighteen years old or not.

The college was a large modern Community College. GP had its own wing of one of the buildings that it sponsored. There were twenty new recruits settling in for their first day of classes. All the young men seemed apprehensive. Not sure how they were expected to behave – to one another and to the lecturers they would encounter.

One young man was more apprehensive than the others. He entered the classroom following a tall man in a dark suit. His round open face was ghostly. Without instruction, he took himself to the far corner of the room and stood with his nose close to the wall. Then, he put his hands on the top of his head in the classic naughty-boy stance.

The low murmur of voices in the room petered out to silence. All eyes were on the boy in the corner. He was dressed in the GP uniform, was about five-eight tall, with jet black hair closely cut around his neck and ears. His blazer had risen up his back, uncovering the seat of his trousers which covered two round chubby buttocks.

The man in the black suit, who introduced himself simply as “Fraser,” welcomed the new boys and went through a series of pleasantries. Kenny was not the only one not paying attention. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the lad in the corner.  Who was he? Why was he here?

Fraser droned on some more. He was just a buzz in the room, to Kenny. Like a bee, he could hear his presence, but he didn’t pay him any attention.

“Corporal punishment.” Those two words pulled Kenny up sharp. What was Fraser talking about?

“Corporal punishment is in use here as you probably know. We believe you boys are an elite group and we expect you to work hard and obey the rules. If you do not our first recourse is to corporal punishment.”

Fraser let the sentence hang in the air a little. For dramatic effect. Like so many college lecturers he was a bit of a ham actor.

“You will be beaten for indiscretions and misdemeanours.”

Twenty nineteen year olds shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. This was not news to them; young people were subjected to corporal punishment all over the country, but the realisation that its use was so close, made them shiver.

It was to get closer still.

“I want to be aware from the very beginning of the consequences of poor behaviour. That is why I have brought Sterling here this morning.”

The boy in the corner shuddered at the mention of his name.

“Sterling is a second-year apprentice who should know better.” Fraser fixed the class with a beady eye. It felt like he was staring into the very soul of everyone present.

“Yet, he insists on breaking the rules. He missed curfew last week and now he must be punished.”

Kenny stared across at Sterling in the corner who buckled a little at the knees and shuffled his feet. It was tiring standing for so long with hands on head.

Fraser walked across the classroom to a pine-effect cupboard, took out a ring of keys from his pocket, searched for the correct one, and inserted it in a lock. He slid the door across. It was empty, except for one thing. Fraser picked it up and withdrew it.

He turned to the class full of new recruits and held up a stout wooden paddle. It looked a lot like a long thin chopping board Kenny’s mother had in her kitchen. It was about a eighteen inches long and maybe three inches wide.

used paddle holding (9)
There was a collective intake of breath when Frasier slapped the board  into the palm of his hand

There was a collective intake of breath when Fraser slapped the board with some force into the palm of his hand.

Fraser failed to suppress a smirk when he called across the room. “OK, Sterling. You know the drill.”

Sterling removed his hands from his head and reluctantly turned on his heels to face into the classroom.

“Stand by that desk,” Fraser waved the paddle at a teacher’s desk in front of the class. With eyes glued to the floor, the wretched young man waddled across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” It was a quiet order, spoken in a calm voice. But it was an order that Fraser expected to be obeyed.

Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

“Lower your trousers and underpants.”

Kenny saw the lad sitting to his right cross his legs. The boy’s face was scarlet. He seemed to be perspiring a lot too.

Sterling unbuttoned the top of his trousers and pulled at the zipper. Then, he placed both thumbs inside the waistband and pulled down the trousers and his underpants together. He let them bunch up against his shins.

Twenty pairs of eyes were glued to the young man’s buttocks. Sterling was not a fat boy, but his bum was wobbly. Sterling stood with his hands cupped across his cock and balls. It was an unnecessary gesture; none of those present in the room had a view.

Unseen by the class, Sterling chewed on his lower lip, waiting with dread for the final instruction.

It came. “Bend over the desk, Sterling.”

Kenny did not know if Sterling had been in this position before or if he had witnessed others, but he reckoned that Sterling knew exactly what was expected of him. He lay flat on the desk, with his stomach resting on the near edge. He stretched his arms ahead of him and gripped the two far legs of the desk. One in each hand. In this spread-eagled position his legs were parted, offering his audience a tremendous sight into his crack.

The boy next to Kenny looked fit to burst.

Fraser held the paddle in his right hand and approached the submissive Sterling. Twenty boys leaned forward together.

Fraser rubbed the paddle across the centre of Sterling’s bum. In this prone position, the buttocks had tightened considerably. He raised the wood about two feet from the target, brought it down with a resounding crack, and lifted it away again. A dark red rectangle appeared immediately. Sterling groaned weakly. His knees buckled and he gripped the legs of the desk a little more tightly.

Whack-whack! Two swats landed. One on each cheek. Sterling’s stomach lifted from the desktop. His head thrashed from side to side, the way a horse’s sometimes did when it was troubled by a fly.

The boy sitting next to Kenny seemed to be in as much distress as Sterling. Kenny wondered if this public paddling had brought back unpleasant personal memories for him.

The next swat hit lower. It was a large paddle and a single swipe covered a lot of flesh. The tops of Sterling’s thighs were raw.

“Ouch, oww, yeowl,” any resolve Sterling might have not to show himself up in front of the new recruits was broken. That one hurt! Like crazy. It felt as if the backs of his legs were on fire.

“Steady boy. Steady.” Fraser waited while Sterling marched his feet up and down, trying, unsuccessfully, to ease the throbbing pain in his bottom and legs.

Crack-crack! Two terrific shots landed in the fleshiest part of the globes, right in the curves. More marching from Sterling. He banged his head up and down on the desk. Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath.

Fraser stepped back away from Sterling. “Have a good look boys. That’s how your backsides will be if you step out of line.”

Sterling’s rear end was bright red. No part of his bum was untouched. Bruises had already started forming in the very centre of the cheeks. The imprint of the paddle was clearly visible at the outer edges of the buttocks.

“Stand up Sterling. Get dressed.”

Sterling hauled himself from the desk. His arse burnt like the flames of hell. It took monumental self-control not to shoot both hands to his buttocks and rub furiously. He did not want to give Fraser the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. Besides, past experience told him that rubbing never eased the pain. Sometimes it made it worse.

Careful not to show his audience his manhood, Sterling bent down and retrieved his trousers and pants. This movement gave the boys a final chance to witness the damage. They would all agree later it they were really toasted buns.

Fraser waited for Sterling to get fully dressed and sent him on his way. He was not a cruel man, Sterling had been humiliated enough.

Fraser himself exited shortly after and the boys waited for the arrival of a lecturer for their first class.

The boy next to Kenny sat mortified. His underpants were full of spunk.

Changed Times 2. Neighbourhood Watch is here

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The Tyrant Headmaster 5: Back in short trousers

Previous stories from The Tyrant Headmaster

The Boy in The Bar here.

A new beginning  here.

The prefects’ reckoning here.

Smoking on Saturday here.


The steam train chugged along the branch line on its way to town. Aboard making their daily journey from the villages were thirty-two boys heading for St Septimus Independent Grammar School.

One train took the boys to school in the morning; another brought them home in the afternoon. Most days the boys were the only passengers. Most days; but not every day.

What fun the boys had; jumping up and down on the seats and fighting, or poking their head out the window to shout at scarecrows and cows in the fields. Some sang rude songs, one about Dr Fortescue, the headmaster, was chanted with special enthusiasm.

The first-formers were the most boisterous. You could tell they were first-formers by the smart grey short trousers they wore. Shortly after he became headmaster Dr Fortsecue had decreed that all boys joining the first form must wear short trousers. Nobody much complained. The boys wore short trousers in their primary schools; they were used to them.

Dr Fortsecue was pleased his plan met with no opposition; it would fortify him for what was to come. The new first formers would continue to wear short trousers in the second form, and the third, and right up until they left the sixth-form aged eighteen. By the time he had finished every boy in the school from the most junior to the most senior would wear short trousers.

Dr Fortescue believed in short trousers. Proper trousers; not the cotton shorts people wore during the summer. The school uniform had authentic grey short trousers; just like the long trousers the boys presently wore, except they were tailored to just above the knee. Long socks completed the ensemble. He thought they looked delightful with the school’s blue-and-white blazer and cap.

Yes, the doctor enthused to his staff when he announced the school uniform change. The boys were children and they should be reminded of such. They would dress like children and respect their schoolmasters and other adults accordingly. Failure to do so would result in punishment. And like the Good Book said; that meant the rod, or more specifically three feet or more of whippy school cane.

Dr Fortescue gripped the telephone in his hand so tightly his knuckles had turned white. This contrasted distinctly with his face which was glowing bright red. His fury increased with every word his caller spoke.

At last, the call terminated, the headmaster slammed the receiver down with such force it bounced out of the cradle and landed on the top of his desk.

Outrageous! A disgrace! There will be hell to pay! How was such a thing possible? Boys from his school behaving like hooligans on the train. Guttersnipes. He wouldn’t expect the oiks at Gumshoe Lane Secondary Mod to behave this way.

Minutes later Mr Tavistock the deputy headmaster stood in front of the headmaster’s desk. He was an elderly man, close to the age of retirement, but that did not stop him feeling like a very naughty first-former while Dr Fortescue berated him about the boys’ behaviour.

At last, the headmaster’s rage subsided long enough for Tavistock to interject.

“We can easily find the boys’ names. The same ones use the train every day.”

“Do it!” roared the headmaster. “Every boy on that train must be thrashed. Get a list, instruct their housemasters. An exemplary caning for each one of them.”

Tavistock hesitated. Every boy? How could we be certain that all the boys were guilty? He opened his mouth the voice an objection.

“Go Tavistock, go!” the headmaster interjected. “Get the job done, man.”

With that the elderly deputy headmaster fled the study.

Two hours later Tony Sinclair and Alan Reid stood terrified before the headmaster’s desk. News had spread around school; all the boys on the train were to be thrashed by their housemaster. Every one; no exceptions. But that wasn’t entirely true. Not everyone would be caned by their housemaster. Sinclair and Reid, the only two prefects on the train, would get a special headmaster’s flogging.

“Shit,” Tony had said to Alan when the summons to the head’s study had been delivered. “We weren’t shouting and singing. Why are we to get a bowing?”

“We’re prefects,” his despondent friend replied. “He’d say we were supposed to stop them. That’s our job.”

“What, you think we should get our arses roasted for this? What the fuck were we supposed to do?”

Alan shrugged his shoulders. He loved being a prefect at St Septimus, his mother was so proud of him. But, and he dared not say this to his pal Tony, he was a little ashamed of himself that he didn’t try to calm the boys down.

“Come on,” Alan said with a confidence he did not really feel, “Let’s get this over with.”

Dr Fortescue was an elderly, tall, grim man. He glared at the two eighteen-year-olds who stood before him. His contempt for the wretched prefects was undisguised.

Alan had been correct. The headmaster wanted to blame them entirely for the hooliganism on the train. He jawed and jawed. “Disgrace to the school … no longer to be prefects … no better behaved than a first-former.”

Alan only half heard. He couldn’t concentrate on the lecture. His hands shook so violently he had to clasp them behind his back so that he looked like a minor member of the Royal Family. On and on, the headmaster lambasted the pair.

Next to him Tony stared blankly ahead. He could not meet the headmaster’s eye so concentrated on a spot on the wall over the old man’s left shoulder.

“Do you remember what I told the sixth-form last Wednesday?” The headmaster paused awaiting a reply. But none came. Neither boy had been listening. Suddenly Alan woke with a start. What? Had the headmaster asked him a question?

“Pah!” Dr Fortescue’s face blazed red. The impertinence of these boys. “I told you,” he said, answering his own question, “that if senior boys chose to behave like first-formers, they would be treated like first-formers.”

Alan’s startled face betrayed his own thoughts.

“Well Reid,” the headmaster dripped sarcasm. “You appear to have woken up at last. What did I say would be the consequences?”

Alan knew exactly what the headmaster meant. All the sixth-formers had roared with laughter at the absurdity of the idea. Laughed that is once they were out of the earshot of Dr Fortescue.

“Sh… sh..” Alan couldn’t get the words out.

“Come on boy!” the headmaster spat. “What did I tell you?”

The trembling sixth-former took a gulp of breath and blurted, “You said we’d be made to dress like the first-formers. We’d be made to wear short trousers.” He caught the glare of the headmaster’s icy blue eyes and added hastily, “Sir.”

“Yes,” the headmaster barked, “and that is precisely what will happen to you two.” He waited for the news to sink in, delighted that both of the eighteen-year-old pupils shuffling their feet on the worn rug had paled significantly. Then he added, with much malevolence, “You will report to matron immediately who will supply each of you with a pair of short trousers.”

The headmaster had prepared a little speech. “You will wear them at all times in school and also on your journey to and from home. I shall give you each a letter to take home to your parents to explain the situation.”

Alan turned to his friend Tony, but the boy deliberately avoided eye contact. Wear short trousers. All the time. With the first-formers at school and on the train. This was too humiliating for words.

It was as if the headmaster could read the boy’s mind.

“You only have yourselves to blame. Now, off with you. Go see Matron. Then return to my study immediately for an exemplary thrashing.”


It had only taken a moment. Matron seemed to be expecting them. She had already selected their clothes. Dolefully, Alan slipped off his shoes, unbuckled the belt on his trousers and let them fall to his ankles. He sat on a hard wooden chair to tug them off his feet. He glanced over at his new grey school short trousers. When, he pondered silently, would he ever see his long trousers again.

Tony picked up his own pair of short trousers. They were very smart, he had to admit. He stepped into them and pulled them up tight. They fitted very well indeed. They fell to about an inch above his knee. The waist was elastic and could stretch comfortably around him. It was as if they had been tailor-made. He pulled up the long grey socks and his transformation was complete. Tony Sinclair, aged eighteen, sixth-former and until minutes ago a school prefect, now reduced to looking like a junior.

He glanced across at Alan. He too had completed his change. “C’mon,” Tony said, “We’d better get a shift on, we don’t want to keep the Beak waiting.”

Alan would have been very content at keeping the headmaster waiting. He did not want to leave the sanctity of Matron’s office. The moment the two left the whole school would see their indignity. He could not bear that and nor did he think he could take the headmaster’s promised “exemplary” thrashing.

The boys watched with terror as the headmaster slipped off his tattered academic gown and draped it on a hook on the door, then took off his suit jacket and hung that up too. He was determined to show he meant business.

He might be elderly, but Dr Fortescue stood tall and erect. He strode purposefully across his study, opened a door to his cabinet and without looking reached his hand inside. He knew exactly what he wanted. The hand emerged seconds later gripping a fearsome Malacca cane. He turned around and clutching the cane by its distinctive brown leather handgrip he swished the rod through the air.

Two pairs of eyes transfixed on the cane. Both boys had been caned before; Tony Sinclair many times, it was that kind of school. But neither had ever confronted such a terrifying instrument of punishment. Unlike most school canes, the rod had no crooked handle, instead it was almost entirely straight, although there was a slight warp half way down its length; the result of much use against the stretched backsides of errant senior schoolboys.

The headmaster flexed the cane between his hands, deliberately to intimidate the two boys before him. It worked. They saw a rod more than three feet in length and as thick as a man’s little finger. Along its length at three or four inch intervals were hard knotted rings. It was these that made the Malacca so awesome; even if a boy wore regulation school trousers and underpants this little beauty in the right hands could rip a backside to shreds.

Dr Fortescue paced up and down the open space in the centre of the study, lecturing the two eighteen-year-olds about his disgust at their behaviour, flexing the cane the whole time. The boys’ heads bowed lower and lower, their hands now clasped behind their backs, as though trying to protect their bottoms from the imminent whipping.

“Reid,” the headmaster growled. “Take that chair and place it in the centre of the room.” He pointed at an old, worn wooden chair. It had a straight back and no arms. The teenager, his heart thumping, moved the two steps it took to cross the room and gripped the chair by its shiny seat. It was heavier than he had expected and he had difficulty man-handling it into the required position.

“Turn it so that its back faces you.” Dr Fortescue was enjoying himself. Sometimes he loved to make the miscreants prepare the setting of their own punishment; it added greatly to the tension of the occasion.

Satisfied that the chair was suitably situated, the headmaster swished his cane through the air once more, this time pointing it at his desk. “Take off your blazers and place them on my desk.” He swiped the cane once more in case there was any doubt where he meant.

Saliva dried in the doctor’s mouth as he watched the two boys disrobe. He especially noticed how much Tony Sinclair’s hands trembled as he tried and at first failed to undo the three buttons on his blazer. Each boy wore a shining white school shirt; their mothers must have been very proud of them. But, a patch of sweat on Tony Sinclair’s back rather spoilt the effect.

“Stand there both of you.” Once again the cane moved at speed through empty air. This time the headmaster swished the rod in the direction of the study wall and two dejected sixth-formers shuffled across the carpet.

“You first Reid. Stand behind the chair, bend over the back and grasp the seat. Head down low, buttocks out.”

Alan Reid blinked with relief. He almost smiled. Bend over the chair, the head had said. Phew! He had been promised an “exemplary” thrashing. Surely, that meant trousers and pants down: bare arsed.

Quickly, before the headmaster could change he mind, the boy took three paces forward, hesitated for a mere moment and stretched over the back of the wooden chair.

“Pah!” the headmaster thought to himself. “The boy does not seem to be overly concerned about the whipping he is about to receive. Well we shall see about that”

Dr Fortescue took a step back to get a full view of the teenager bending before him. Reid was a tall lad, easily six feet, and rather lanky. The short trousers that he now wore fitted him well at the waist, but they were made for a much shorter boy. They fell to about three inches above the knee and in the bending-over position they rode much higher up his thighs. The smart short trousers encased Reid’s jutting and rather full bottom beautifully, offering the headmaster a wonderful target to attack.

Dr Fortescue hovered the cane over the middle of the former prefect’s awaiting buttocks and draw it back and up so that it came level with his right shoulder. The headmaster was an expert with the cane; after all he had developed his technique over many years. It was a simple matter of motion and energy needing a flick of the wrist just a fraction of a second before the cane struck into the waiting bottom.

It was a stroke of tremendous force that landed straight across Reid’s prominent backside. There was an audible intake of breath: he felt it even if he managed to avoid moving or screaming. There was an equally audible intake of breath from Sinclair who was standing by watching his friend receive what was undoubtedly going to be the thrashing of his lifetime.

This might not be a bare-bottomed thrashing, but the Malacca cane easily sliced through layers of trousers and underpants. The agony in the boy’s bum was intense, even after only a single stroke.

The headmaster raised the cane high and lashed it firmly across the quivering posterior. As he removed it another thick line formed underneath the boy’s tight white underpants.

He left the most severe of the strokes until the fourth and fifth. There was more force in number five and Reid howled, stood up straight and clutched his brutalised bottom. Tears flowed down his flushed cheeks and a trail of snot dribbled from his nose.

The headmaster glared in silence. It took the wretched sixth-former a minute, but he got his breath back and forced himself to bend over for the final stroke.

The head took a bit of a run up whipping the cane down hard, Reid yelled as the last stroke whipped hard into his under bottom where the bum meets the thighs; the most sensitive part of a boy’s anatomy that is exposed during a caning. It would ensure he was reminded of his punishment every time he sat down for a few days.

“You may stand Reid.” The headmaster atoned haughtily. The boy leapt to his feet rubbed away at his bum and slid his arm across his face to clear the tears and snot and then with eyes cast down resumed his spot at the wall.

used school shorts after (3)
He rubbed away at his bum

“Sinclair. Take his place.”

Moments later Tony was admiring the seat of the wooden chair from a very close distance. It was an ancient chair and much of the varnish on the seat had been removed by years of wear. The sides that he gripped tightly were completely bare wood. How many dozens (hundreds?) of boys had contributed to this over the years?

Dr Fortescue held his cane tightly and began to take his aim. The boy seemed stoical, his breathing was heavy as must be expected in the circumstances, but he held his bottom up steadily awaiting the first lash of the Beak’s cane.

The headmaster respected boys who accepted without fuss that they must be punished for their faults and that their backsides should pay under the rod to atone for their transgressions.

He expected a pupil to bend over when instructed and to present his behind unflinchingly. But, the headmaster also wanted the boy’s bottom to vibrate and quiver as the cheeks reddened. That would testify to his own skillful prowess with the cane. But, he knew a caning was a contest: the headmaster must inflict considerable pain and, however much the boy bending before him accepted he deserved his beating, the boy would try to show he did not feel it.

If that had been Sinclair’s intention, he failed miserably. He was in tears after the second stroke. His bottom danced under the strokes of the cane and twice the headmaster was forced to remind him not to struggle. The threat of extra strokes made him comply. After the full six strokes had been given, he lay sobbing over the chair, wheezing for breath. He was a very sorry boy. Which, the headmaster knew without a shadow of doubt, was what he should be.

The double beating over, the headmaster sat down and placed the cane on the desk and filled in the punishment book. Both boys had recovered sufficiently from their ordeal to take the pen when offered and signed their names. The throbbing in their backside was intense, but tears and snot had ceased to flow.

The headmaster stood and walked across the study to return his cane to its resting place. Without looking at the boys, he ordered “Return to class,” and within seconds they were gone. The first ordeal of the afternoon was over. The caning had been delivered and received. Now, the two eighteen-year-olds had to return to class dressed in their smart short trousers to suffer the mockery of their fellow sixth-formers.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second