The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales — update

Some readers may have had a problem downloading the free e-book Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

This link should work.

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Here are also new links to the other three recently uploaded books

The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

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Uncle Dwight has a ‘little word’

new story 2

I stood up and then I sat down again. I fidgeted for a few moments and then I stood up. I paced across the tiny room. It took no more then five steps. I turned, looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. He was late. I peered out of the window. The sun hadn’t yet gone down. It was a little after seven. It was early summer. It wouldn’t get dark for three more hours at least. I wanted him to hurry up. I promised to meet my mates in the pub at eight.

I paced back to the armchair and sat down. I looked at my watch. It was hardly a minute since I had last checked the time. I fidgeted some more. I picked up the Brocklehurst Bugle. With intense irritation I turned the pages. There was nothing worth reading. There never was. Nothing ever happened in Brocklehurst. I couldn’t wait to get away. I wouldn’t have too long to wait; I had an escape route planned.

Uncle Dwight was supposed to be here at seven. He was late. Damn him! Why couldn’t he be on time. It was his idea to meet. I would rather not, but I had no choice. He wanted to have “a little word” – just the two of us. Sometime when we could be alone. Well Friday night was the only time I had the house to myself. Mum was at her Bingo! and my younger sister at Brownies. It was the only time all week I could be sure of being alone. Not that I ever stayed in. Friday night was pub night with the guys from school. Well to be honest that wasn’t entirely true. Friday night was Have A Wank Night; then a shower and then out to the Dog and Biscuit pub.

But not this time. I wasn’t in the mood to pull one off. I did try but even the “hard core” magazine we lads had been swopping was no use. Uncle Dwight was coming to have his “little word”; and that put all other thoughts out of my head.

I paced the room again and pulled the net curtains to one side to see through the window. I had a reasonable view of the street. No sight of Uncle yet. I looked at the clock. Ten past: what was keeping him. Of course, when Uncle said he wanted “a little word” he didn’t really mean a little word he meant something else. I didn’t expect there to me much talking.

Uncle Dwight was my mum’s brother. He worked mostly on the oil rigs and was only in town for a few weeks every year. During that time he liked to “catch up” on family events. I called it poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, but, of course, I had no say in the matter. Things were tense at home. I was eighteen and hated it there. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dreadful house and the stinking town. My school examinations were due in a few weeks’ time. I intended to pass and go off to university; then I’d never have to return to Brocklehurst ever again.

I knew I’d get to the university.  I had passed my eleven-plus exam at the end of primary school and went to the grammar, where I excelled. Mum was a cleaning-lady and had left school aged fourteen. She had no use for book-learning. I don’t suppose she had read a book in her whole life. She was so ignorant she used to call the romance magazines she bought “books”. When I was much younger I made excuses for her ignorance. There had been a war on when she was a child and she went to work on the land. She didn’t have a chance. During my left-wing political phase (when I was about thirteen) I saw her as a martyr of “the system”, but then I discovered parents of my schoolfriends with similar histories had made decent lives for themselves. In truth, I thought, she wallowed in her ignorance.

I couldn’t stand to be in the same house as her. I spent a lot of time in the public library and when I was at home I hardly ever left my bedroom. After the age of about sixteen I don’t suppose I spoke a civil word to her. It’s a cliché, but in my case it was true, that I treated the house like a hotel. If I had the money I would’ve gladly lived in a hotel.

On his latest visit Mum unburdened herself to Uncle Dwight. He told me I was “rude, insolent, uncouth and offensive.” At least his vocabulary was wider than Mum’s. That wasn’t the end of it. Uncle Dwight said I had no respect for all the work she put in keeping me clothed and fed. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have been able to stay on at school after I was sixteen. “Not true,” I barked back at him and told him of the scholarships I had won. “Me, alone,” I told him, “By using my brains.” I didn’t say it in so many words but I was letting Uncle Dwight know that I had no respect for him either. He was a manual worker although on more than one occasion I had heard him refer to himself as “semi-skilled”. I tried not to laugh.

By the time I had made my little speech, a “rant” Uncle Dwight called it, he had probably made up his mind. “You need taking down a peg or two. You’re getting too big for your britches,” he said. Britches! Where did he dig that one up, the sad old ignorant man? So, that was why I was pacing the tiny front room at the house waiting for hm to come for his “little word”.

Uncle Dwight eventually arrived close to half-past-seven. I suppose the bus was late. He had no car and couldn’t afford a taxi. Loser! He had his own door key so could let himself into the house. I stayed seated sinking into the armchair. Let him come find me. Why should I make an effort. Uncle Dwight was a large man, he was easily six or seven inches taller than me and probably had as many extra inches around his waist. He wore baggy jeans; cheap ones, bought at a supermarket and a collarless shirt that stretched against his vast belly and what people today call his “man boobs”. He sweated copiously; the summer weather is no friend to obese people. I looked him up and down in distain. How I loathed that man. I stayed seated and he came and stood over me; he blocked out the sun. I knew why he had come and he knew why he was there so there was no reason to go through all my supposed misdeeds again. No reason, but that didn’t stop Uncle Dwight from listing all my so-called faults. He finished his speech by saying that thing about being, “Too big for my britches” again. I managed not to sneer.

Then, he was ready to get down to business. “Stand up,” he ordered and when I didn’t he gripped hold of my forearm and hauled me to my feet. He may have been carrying about ten more stone in weight than me but he still had a lot of strength. I pouted and he pushed me away from the chair. He snarled and then took hold of the chair and turned it on its axis so that it pointed in a different direction. I watched, my heart racing (I admit it). This confirmed to me his intention. I had expected this. I was a bright boy after all. I was prepared for what I would do. “You need a darn good spanking!” he said. Darn! That, I was sure, was not a word they used on the oil rigs. “And that’s what you’re going to get,” he added unnecessarily since by now he was unbuckling his belt and trying to loosen it through the loops of his copious jeans. I watched in wonderment as he tried to perform this task: before then I hadn’t realised just how fat he really was.

In time he got the belt free. It was so long that he had to fold it three times before he could get it to a length that it might be used to whip me. I watched patiently and a little perplexed. He intended to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old man. An adult; a person who had the vote. He waved the belt around a bit; I supposed it was to intimidate me. Truthfully, it didn’t work. Oh how I hated him. I hated him because he was pig-ignorant; thick as two short planks (or, if you prefer, pig shit). I hated him because even though he was a moron, at this moment in time he had power over me. He had decided I should be spanked and what could I do about it? The obvious answer to that was refuse. Tell him: No, I wouldn’t let him. Then what? There would be an unseemly fight. He might over-power me, but I doubted it. The best would be he’d pin me down for a bit and whack at me indiscriminately with his belt. Some of the blows would certainly land.

I could walk out and go down the pub. How would that help? I’d have to come home sometime and we’d have the fight then. I knew Uncle Dwight was trying to keep our meeting secret from Mum so maybe the second round of the contest would be postponed for a week. But it would have to take place and there was a great chance Mum would find out. I didn’t want that to happen. Not because I wanted to spare her feeling, I just could stand all that huffing and sighing I would have to endure from her.

No! I had already decided. I hated all of them and in a couple of months (a few weeks!) I would have passed my examinations and be set to go away to university. My escape route. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I would be free. Even at aged eighteen I understood the value of pragmatism. I would let the bastard belt me. So what! Who cared! Let him get on with it.

I didn’t say any of this to Uncle Dwight, I simply stood passively waiting for him to make his next move. This development might have thrown him somewhat. I remember he blustered, “Bend over the chair,” as he tapped his limp belt against the chair’s arm. I shrugged my shoulders in defiance. It was my way of saying, “Yeah! Whatever!” The chair was quite low and I could tell that a better bet would have been for me to go across its back as this way I would have presented a better target to Uncle Dwight. He couldn’t even get that right.

z used jeans couch waiting

I eased myself down across the arm of the chair. I was too tall for that position and had to tuck my arms into the side and bend my knees a lot so my bum could rest over the arm. A person needed to be a contortionist to do this right. I was as ready as I would ever be.

Like this my jeans stretched tightly across my buttocks and it felt like my cheeks had been lifted and separated. Uncle Dwight was silent. He shuffled behind me and although I couldn’t see him I knew he was trying to work out where he could stand so he could take aim at my bum. See, I knew I should have been over the back of the chair. He was wheezing mightily already and he hadn’t started yet. I had never been spanked, nor caned before but I had enough imagination to know what was likely to happen next. After much shuffling Uncle Dwight seemed to have worked out where he should stand.

I waited patiently, determined that I would not feel humiliated to be there, aged eighteen, offering up my bottom to be spanked by a fat middle-aged man. I could count the weeks before I would be free. Darn him! Let him do his worst. He whacked the belt across my backside. There was a loud crack as leather struck tight denim. I suddenly realised the window was wide open and feared any passer-by could hear. The last thing I wanted was the nosey neighbours knowing I had my bottom spanked. I buried my head in my arms and let Uncle Dwight get on with it.

He whacked the belt down about six or seven times before I realised I couldn’t feel a thing. The belt made a terrific noise there was no doubt about that, but as an instrument of punishment it was useless. Thinking about it later it was obvious why. The strap was thin and narrow and had no weight to speak of. My jeans were nearly new and made of thick denim. I was also wearing underpants. Add to that the fact that I was eighteen and not eight and was tough enough to withstand much more pain that Uncle Dwight could ever hope to inflict with his belt.

I lay passively, my head down and raised my bum as best as I could. “Come on then,” I was saying with my body, “Give it your best shot. You loser.” I can’t remember how many strokes (you couldn’t honestly call them “lashes”) he gave me but he could have gone on all night for all the effect it had on me. Before too long the effort was too much for him. He was not a man given to taking exercise and his body was about to remind him of that. If he continued he might have fallen down dead with a heart attack.

At last he wised up to the fact that it was time to stop. He was bent double (as far as his waist would allow) gasping for breath when I got to my feet. I stood watching him with utter contempt. I had not felt a thing during his so-called punishment.  I knew that once he had left and I checked my bum for damage it would be unblemished. What a loser! He couldn’t even spank me properly.

I didn’t wait for his permission before I headed upstairs. If I didn’t get a move on I’d be late meeting my pals. By the time I came down five minutes later Uncle Dwight had left the house. I gathered my wallet and keys and headed for the pub.

AFTERWARD.

That happened to me in 1973. I went to university and subsequently gained a masters degree and a doctorate. I travelled all over the world with my work. Mum and Uncle Dwight are both long since dead. I never returned to Brocklehurst; not even for their funerals.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle gets a shock

Summer holiday camp

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

new story 2

z used pants over steps ladder painter workplace

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Strike while the iron is hot. Sow and you shall reap. There are similar maxims that I can’t immediately recall, but you get my drift. I have believed these for much of my adult life and they have served me well. My story started at the end of summer. I had just taken early retirement: good pension, money in the bank thank you, so I decided to spend some of it freshening up the house.

I got some local people in. You know the kind of set up. This was a father and son team. They could do a bit of everything; painting and decorating plumbing, electrics. One day the father went off to do a job somewhere else and left the son behind to get on painting the front room and putting in a fancy chandelier light.

His name was Nick and he took my breath away. He was in his early twenties and stood nearly six feet tall. His fair hair was nearly blond and expertly cut to look windswept all the time. He clearly went to the gym and was lean and muscular, unlike so many of the fat blobs you see nowadays wobbling down the street. He wore white overalls (with just underpants and no shirt beneath) and when he bent down to do something or other he showed an arse that was begging to be spanked. Even at my age my cock reacted.

On this day he called out to me, “Mate!” I cut him short. Mate indeed. “Mr Frobisher,” I told him firmly. I am not used to being spoken to with such familiarity by younger people. He blushed and said, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher.” I nodded my forgiveness and he went on. “Can you cut the electricity so I can connect the light.” I sighed heavily, “Were you never taught to say please?”

My eyes might have lit up more brightly than any fancy chandelier. A chance had presented itself to me. It was up to me if I took it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “The fuse box is in the cupboard under the stairs,” I told him and watched the Adonis climb down from his stepladder and cross the room. I spied on him from a distance, keen to discover what his next reaction would be.

You see I keep my toys in the cupboard under the stairs. When he opened the door he would see hanging on nails hammered into the wall two crook-handled school canes, a shiny wooden paddle, a very worn two-tailed leather taws and an old-fashioned razor strop. He would be in no doubt what they were used for.

More people than you might imagine are “into” spanking. That is, spanking as a recreational activity, rather than as a genuine means of discipline and punishment. Some people (like me) are very open about it and take their fun whenever they can. Myself, I am an enthusiastic member of the Whacko! Club. Others, perhaps those who are shy, or who don’t know their way around rely on pornography and fantasy. Yet others don’t know yet that they are into spanking and just need a spark to catch them on fire.

I had no idea if Nick belonged to any of these groups, but I would soon find out. I stood in the doorway and marvelled at the sight of his tight buttocks stretching against his overalls as he knelt down to lean his head and shoulders into the cupboard. He did not fail to see my toys. What he did next would answer my question: is he into spanking? I have seen before that a person confronted  by a cane, paddle, taws or what not cannot fail to react. If he picks up one of the toys, flexes a cane, tests a paddle on his palm, swipes the taws through the air, you know you have got him. There stands a spanko (whether he admits it or not).

My heart leapt. Nick paused his work, took a long look at the implements hanging on the wall and without checking to see if he could be seen, he rubbed two fingers along the tails of the taws. Then, he leaned forward and sniffed it. Oh joy! Things were about to get interesting. I went into the kitchen so he wouldn’t realise I had seen him. I made myself coffee, I needed to think. I had to concoct a plan.

I waited about five minutes and sauntered into the room where Nick was working. He was on his stepladder reaching up to the ceiling. He was a vision. His long legs tapered to meaty buttocks. His waist was slim, stomach firm and chest muscular. Any doubt I could have had (and truly there was none) died at that moment. I wanted Nick’s arse.

I knew that he had seen the spanking toys and was no fool and knew what they were for. I didn’t expect him to ask me about them. He was probably too embarrassed and certainly inexperienced in these things. I would have to make the first move. I read a story online recently about a painter and decorator who was taken over the knee by his boss and spanked because he arrived late for work. If only real life was as simple as fiction. In any case Nick was an exemplary worker and never came late; he would go far in his chosen trade.

Oftentimes, the most direct route is the best. Nothing ventured. “Did you see what was in the cupboard, Nick?” I asked as casually as my pounding heart and panting breath would allow. His sexy body shivered and his clear, open face flushed. “Yes,” he said cautiously, drawing out the word as if it had several syllables. “Good,” I said, adopting a stern “schoolmasterly” tone. “Just remember they are there should you chose to misbehave.” I immediately left the room to let him mull over my words.

It was now up to him. He said nothing to me for the rest of the day. He fitted the light and put a top coat of paint on the bedroom walls and then went home, without even saying “goodbye.” I couldn’t be sure if I had misread him. Maybe he wasn’t into spanking at all. Maybe, he was, but he wasn’t yet ready to have a go. I had a restless night. If he wouldn’t let me spank him in reality he couldn’t stop me in my dreams.

The next day he did not arrive at nine as usual. I was unsure how to interpret this. Could I expect trouble later from his father? What could he do? I was employing them and I hadn’t yet paid the bill. Might there be violence? I would soon find out. He turned up close to ten. “What time do you call this?” I scolded him. “Dunno mate,” he sniggered, “I ain’t got a watch.”

“You need to show more respect,” I countered. “You need to be taken down a peg or two, young man.” I was speaking to his back as by now he had trudged up the stairs to continue work in the bedroom. I retired to the kitchen, a smile playing around my lips. About fifteen minutes later as I took a mug of coffee into the lounge I detected a strong aroma from upstairs. Oh my! I giggled. Is that what I think it is? I stealthily climbed the stairs. If he was up to no good I wanted to catch him at it. The bedroom door was ajar and I could easily see inside. He wasn’t hiding. He sat cross-legged on the floor. Between his lips he had a burning cigarette, he had smoked it half way.

“What is this?” I affected outrage. “Smoking. In my house. How dare you!” He sprang to his feet, every inch the schoolboy caught in some misbehaviour. “It’s disgusting. I don’t allow cigarettes in my house.” By now he had stubbed it out on a rung of his ladder. He hopped from foot to foot and stared down at the floor. “How dare you!” I repeated. “I don’t believe it! Such behaviour!”

I waited to allow him to say something but he was (genuinely, I think) at a loss for words. When it was clear to me he wasn’t going to speak I filled in the gap. “What do you think your father will say when I tell him?” That prompted him to reply, “No, please mister. Please don’t tell him. I’ll do anything.” It was all I could do not to groan out loud. What a corny line! I’ll do anything. Was that the best he could do? Instead, I said, “Who do you think you’re calling ‘Mister’. I told you yesterday about your manners.” He looked sheepish, “Sorry, Mr Frobisher,” he said and to my delight, added, “Sir.”

“Well,” I said. I was working on an old script. “You should buck your ideas up young man.” That was his cue to say, “Sorry” again. To which I added, “Sorry is not good enough. What you need is a jolly good spanking.” The air was heavy. This was his chance to tell me to go to Hell, to threaten to punch my face in if I laid a finger on him, or simply to walk out of my house never to return. He did none of these things. Instead, he twisted his fingers together and swivelled on his feet a little and whined, “Sowry,” in a childish voice. Oh dear, I thought, he has a lot to learn about roleplay, but I found him rather endearing. “Sorry Sir,” I snapped. I wasn’t angry, of course. I was delighted. We were ready to go.

“Wait there,” I growled (I can play the ham actor too). I strode from the room and in my eagerness took the stairs two at a time. I had the cupboard door open in a second. I hesitated. Which of my toys to choose. My personal favourite is the whippy, rattan school cane. I would take great pleasure marking his backside with one of those. But, I had observed the day before that Nick had taken rather a fancy to the two-tailed taws. Since this was to be his special day, the day he would lose his virginity (so to speak), I would defer to his choice. I raced back to the bedroom with the leather strap in my hand.

Nick’s bright, open face paled. He had quite a tan from working in the open during the summer, but that could not disguise his blanch. His eyes sparkled. He gazed transfixed at the taws in my hand. I was in no doubt that this hunk of a lad wanted to be beaten. He desired it. He craved it. And, he wanted to be beaten by me. I remember the first time I was spanked. The mixed emotions. The anxiety mingling with anticipation. The tremendous high it gave me after (greater than any drug could ever do).

I waved the worn, leather taws in his face. It was so close his eyes crossed as he watched the tails almost brush his nose. His breathing was heavy. Already a film of sweat covered his forehead. I took a step back and surveyed him. As with yesterday he wore heavy overalls and it seemed not much else underneath. I swiped the taws through the air, delighted that his eyes carefully followed its flight. I was sure he was ready, I know damn well I was: my cock was bursting.

“These overalls are no good,” I said, expecting him to get my drift without too much explanation. “Take them off.” To my astonishment he did not hesitate. He was out of the heavy cotton clothing in seconds. They fell to his feet and he stepped away leaving them crumpled on the ground. I hope he didn’t see my jaw drop as I drank in his beauty. He was dressed in a cheap t-shirt and tight white  shorts. He stood submissively, his face crimson. He looked as nervous as hell, but I was an old pro. I’d seen novices before. Outwardly they look terrified; inwardly they are craving to be dominated.

The room had no furniture. That didn’t matter. The ladder had only three steps. It was tall enough for him to stand on to reach the ceiling, it was also the right size for him to bend over to offer me his backside. I adopted a tone that I thought suitable for a disgruntled householder. “I have had enough of your rudeness. You need to learn a lesson young man,” I tapped the taws against my right leg as I spoke, keeping up a rhythm: one tap, one word. “I’m going to teach you some manners.” His eyes were glazing by now. “Bend over!” I pointed to the top rung of the stepladder so there was no doubt what I meant.

He hesitated for a second. Was he having second thoughts? Was he about to chicken out? Was he nothing but a prick-tease? My doubts were unjustified. Nick took a second to weigh up the consequences of his next action. Then I swear he took a deep lung-full of air, he wiped his sweaty palms against the seat of his shorts. Without a word, he swivelled on his feet turning away from me and towards the ladder. On a silent count of three he leaned forward. The ladder was slightly too tall for him and he had to stand on tiptoes to reach across. He did this without fuss and reached his arms down and  grabbed the lowest rung that he could. He parted his feet and waited, breathing heavily, for me to begin.

His head was low and his bottom high, which was a perfect position for spanking. The tight shorts and meaty buttocks presented me with a terrific target; quite the best I had seen for some time (my fellows at the Whacko! Club tend to be older and flabbier). I licked my lips which by now were so dry they were in danger of cracking. I gripped the taws by its handle and laid the two tails across the highest part of his bum; on the top of the mounds. His back tensed and he gripped hold of the ladder a little more tightly. I flicked my wrist and allowed the leather to smack his bum gently. I was getting my aim. Then, without further ado I raised my arm to about shoulder length and smacked the taws across his backside. It was a moderate stroke. I should have liked to have lashed the leather with full force but Nick was a beginner. As far as I knew he had never been spanked before. I was certain his father had never taken him across his knee or applied a belt to his backside while he lay across the arm of a settee. I knew this for sure; fathers just didn’t do such things these days no matter how much their bratty sons might deserve it.

Nick gave no reaction. I was now faced with a choice. I find when spanking a boy for the first time I have to take very great care to get his measure. If I spank too hard it might take the lad beyond his limits of endurance to such an extent that he runs away howling and clutching his savaged buttocks never to return. Hit him too softly and he will wonder what all the fuss was about. He will have been cheated of the true exhilaration that comes with a spanking properly administered.

It seemed to me that Nick was far from impressed with the first stroke. I returned the taws to his rear end with more vim. The tails spread across the lower part of his buttocks, into the under-curves. Again, I detected little reaction. Undaunted I tried again. This one struck him squarely (if that is the correct word) across the highest point of his mounds. He gasped. “Ha!” I said to myself, “Now, we’re cooking.” I applied another two strokes, the second slightly harsher than the first. His bum wriggled and air hissed through his by-now clenched teeth.

Two more, harder still; one low, the other high, had him bending his knees. Two more and his head was bouncing up and down. The next swipe was greeted with a clear yelp. I halted, took a step back and admired my handiwork so far. The back of Nick’s neck was as scarlet as his face. I knew from experience his backside would also be crimson. The cotton shorts were thin and fitted snuggly and I was in no doubt that welts now criss-crossed his buttocks. He would be in some pain.

If it had been up to me I could have spanked him all morning, but conscious that he was a novice and by now convinced this would not be the last time Nick would submit himself to my will, I thought it best to wind up proceedings. “The last six,” I intoned gruffly. I positioned myself to the lad’s left and laid the taws across his bottom.

We were both so engrossed in the matter in hand neither of us heard the van draw upside the house. Nor did we hear the footsteps treading the bare floorboards as Nick’s father made his way upstairs towards the bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other pictures you might like

Remembering Professor Price

Alexander’s little secret

The apprentices

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Choice is Yours

new story 2

z used drawing cane quelch (100)

Cuckfield stood feet slightly apart on the worn rug in front of the desk, arms clasped behind back, head bowed, trying not to notice the thick, long curve-handled cane being flexed in the hands of the headmaster.

Dr Fortescue leaned forward, his steely gaze burning a hole into the sixth-former before him. “Pah!” he excelled air through clenched teeth. “So, Cuckfield you think you are above the school. That the rules do not apply to you,” he growled. “You think you should not be treated like a child. That punishments are not for you.”

Cuckfield recoiled. Even at a distance of three paces he could smell the headmaster’s foul breath. “So, Cuckfield, you feel you should be treated like an adult.” The headmaster sneered at the word “adult.” Dr Fortescue flexed the cane some more creating a perfect arc. “Let me tell you Cuckfield adults are required to make decisions. Often harsh decisions. Often complicated decisions. Do you understand boy?”

Cuckfield breathed deeply, remained silent, unsure if he was really expected to answer the question. “Bah!” the headmaster exclaimed, his face reddening. “All right Cuckfield. Let me give you a choice. It is your decision to make. You shall choose,” the headmaster dripped sarcasm.

“Here is your choice. Look at me boy when I am speaking to you.”

Cuckfield forced his eyes from the ground and looked at the headmaster. He was a weasel of a man, his narrow eyes staring through round spectacles. His long nose and pointed chin were those of a witch. His body was gaunt, his skin grey. A tattered academic gown draped loosely from his body. His tweed suit was unbrushed. He gave off the faint aroma of coal tar soap.

His lips curled into a snarl. “Here is your choice Cuckfield. You can accept that you are a schoolboy at St Septimius and accept my authority – the school’s authority. So doing you will lower your trousers and bend across that chair.” He nodded towards an over-stuffed armchair. You will then submit yourself to a thrashing.”

The headmaster’s eyes blazed. Cuckfield’s heart thumped, he felt blood rushing to his face. “No wonder the boys call you the Tyrant Headmaster,” he thought silently. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team on the wall a little to the left of the headmaster’s shoulder and waited for him to continue.

“You will then receive six swipes of this cane,” he pointed the rod at Cuckfield and snarled. “Six very hard cuts. Six-of-the-very-best Cuckfield.” He paused and observed the eighteen-year-old on the rug in front of him. “You will take your beating without fuss because you know you deserve to be punished. You know you have broken the rules and this is your just desserts.”

Cuckfield clenched his hands into fists. For tuppence he would sock the smug headmaster on the jaw.

“Then, Cuckfield,” Dr Fortescue intoned, once I consider you have been punished enough, you will thank me for correcting you.” He paused for effect and rather annoyed that Cuckfield remained outwardly impassive he continued. “You will shake me by the hand and thank me for beating you. I will make a note of your punishment in the book and it will be over. You will walk,” he paused again because he was about to make a little joke, “You will walk with some difficulty out of here and we shall both get on with our lives.” Another pause. “Do you understand, Cuckfield?” Still, no response from Cuckfield.

The headmaster was now visibly annoyed. “That is one choice you may make, Cuckfield. The second is that you refuse to accept just punishment. In that I case you shall be immediately suspended from school pending the next meeting of the governors when your suspension will be confirmed as expulsion. You will no longer be a member of the school. You will not be permitted to take your examinations.” He paused to allow the full import of his words to sink in, then continued. “Your records show you are an academically-gifted boy, destined for a place at university. Not any longer. You will not be qualified to go to university and thereby you will not be able to pursue the career of your choice. A life wasted, Cuckfield.”

The headmaster sighed as if he bore the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “Think of your mother’s disappointment, the shame you will bring on your family.” He nodded his head gravely. “The shame when your fellow chaps learn you would not take your beating.”

He took a deep breath, his lecture had taken more out of him than he had expected. “Yes, Cuckfield, the choice is yours.” He growled, “But you have only thirty seconds in which to make it.”

Cuckfield’s eyes blazed – with indignation. Soon they would be aflame for an entirely different reason. The injustice of it. Why should this vile creature be allowed to treat him this way? What gave him and others like him the right to do this? His local vicar was just as bed. Was there a boy’s backside in the parish that had not been bruised at one time or another by his leather strap.

There was no argument to be had. Dr Fortescue held all the cards. He was quite right Cuckfield had no choice; no real choice. As the Americans were fond of saying it was his way or the highway. And, the highway led nowhere. Cuckfield spoke no words; he wouldn’t give the headmaster the satisfaction. He would not agree verbally that he had won once more.

Instead, he reached for the buckle of the belt that held his long pale-grey trousers aloft. They were typical of the time; tailored from heavy serge material, cut generously. Cuckfield’s fingers quivered, unable to grasp his belt buckle. His face reddened with frustration. He wanted to undo his belt with a flourish, pop the button on his waist rip open his flies and send the trousers sailing to his feet with a theatrical flourish. “There Fortescue!” was the message he desired to send, “Do your worst. See if I care!”

Instead, the prong in the buckle snagged and he pulled once, twice, three times before at last the belt was loosened. The top button was easy but the button flies resisted. How he wished the trousers had the new style zipper. Whoosh! he would be undone with the merest flick of the wrist. His theatrical intent was somewhat spoiled. At last the front of his trousers was open, the weight of the belt and the material sent them slithering down his thighs to snag at the knees. So much for his defiant flourish. He spread his legs a little and the trousers continued their journey and rested in a puddle on top of his black lace-up shoes.

His white cotton shirt was long and the tail covered his buttocks and continued half way down his thighs. Cuckfield stood, eyes still transfixed by the grimy rug beneath his trousers. He supposed it had once been coloured shades of blue, but the feet of generations of schoolboys shuffling had turned it to a dirty mush. A draft wafted across the study, originating from the unlit open fire. It breezed against his naked legs causing him an involuntarily shiver.

Dr Fortescue continued his antics with the cane. Headmasters can be ham actors and the head of St SIGS was one of the best. He flexed the whippy rattan cane. Then, he examined it carefully; with an index finger, caressing its tip and rubbing gently each of the notches that appeared every six or seven inches along its length. Finally, he peered closely at the curved handle; as if this was the first time he had set eyes on it. As school punishment canes went, this was a modest specimen. It was about thirty inches long and a little thicker than a pencil. It was a dark yellow Malacca rod, whippy and dense; eminently suitable for a senior boy, needing a lesson.

Satisfied in his mind that the cane was up to the job, Dr Fortescue swished it several times through the air. This action served no purpose at all, but it was one of those rituals beloved by schoolmasters up and down the land. One supposes it is intended to intimidate a boy. If that is the case, the little display was lost on Cuckfield. He was too angry for intimidation. His sense of injustice burned brightly. If he deemed to speak at all at that point he would probably only say, “Oh get on with it, do!”

Dr Fortescue was ready to do just that. He waved his cane towards an ugly armchair. Its leather was scuffed, the seat cushion deflated by untold numbers of visitors with heavy buttocks who had rested there. The leather on its back had been polished to a shine by cotton shirts. “Bend over.” It was a calm instruction, there was no need for histrionics, the headmaster was in charge and he knew this. The eighteen-year-old sixth-former would obey his every command.

Cuckfield was no stranger to this chair. Without further instruction he turned to face it, he was some distance off so he shuffled two paces forward. Still he would not look at the headmaster. He hesitated for a moment; behind him Dr Fortescue was pacing the room, the floorboards creaking with every step. “Come on boy,” he growled.

This was Cuckfield’s cue to reach down to the tail of his shirt and unceremoniously lift it high so that it cleared his buttocks and left a portion of his lower back naked. He left it hanging and with a single athletic movement he fell forward over the chair. He was a good height, his stomach rested comfortable on the apex of the chair’s back. He reached forward and gripped the front of the chair, his striped necktie dangled in front of his eyes but it did not obscure his close-up view of a large depression in the seat cushion.

The steady creaking of floorboards continued. Dr Fortescue was waiting for the boy to present his bottom submissively. Cuckfield’s white cotton Y-front underpants were a little too snug. The headmaster noticed this with his boys, often their blazers or trousers were a little too small; they grew so quickly. Of course, mothers compensated this by buying school uniforms that were too large so that their young ones would grow into them. So it was that schoolboys often wore clothes that did not fit them.

The smooth cotton of Cuckfield’s underpants dug into his crack and as he stretched forward they lifted and separated each cheek. He was a burly boy with square shoulders and a strong back. His waist hardly tapered into large meaty buttocks. They made a tremendous target. The headmaster ceased his pacing and slowly approached the boy, noting the fine downy hair on the teenager’s legs. His move served no practical purpose, but Dr Fortescue gently took hold of Cuckfield’s white cotton shirt and pushed it further up his back. The boy was naked from his waist to shoulders. In contrast with the legs, his torso appeared totally hairless.

He was nearly ready, but not quite. There was one last ritual. He puckered two fingers and took hold of the elasticated waist of Cuckfield’s underpants. The boy tensed, shut his eyes tight and held his breath. With three tugs they were over Cuckfield’s buttocks and down his thighs. The headmaster could have left them out of harm’s way at the knees, but instead he carefully transported them still lower until they bunched on top of his grey trousers.

The hairless buttocks twitched. Cuckfield had no control, a bottom about to be thrashed are apt to do such a thing. It is the anticipation of the agony about to come. “Legs further apart boy.” Another bluff command and again it served no practical purpose. Cuckfield eased his knees apart by an inch, conscious that Dr Fortescue could now see right into his crack. His hole winked a greeting.

The headmaster sucked in a lung-full of air, wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, and gripped the cane in his right fist. He straightened his arm, his elbow locked. Tap-tap-tap. He brought the arm back, twisted his wrist and with a forearm smash brought it forward with maximum force. A dark pink line blazed across the centre of Cuckfield’s bottom. The boy muffled a groan, dug his hands deeper into the seat cushion, and shook his head from side to side (rather like a horse does when it neighs).

Dr Fortescue took his time. He was on a mission. He had a duty. He had to save this young man’s life. The stupid boy would thank him one day. When he had climbed his way to the top of his profession; when he was a High Court Judge or a captain of industry or what-not, Cuckfield would look back on days like this with gratitude. “Thank you, Dr Fortescue,” he would say. “I owe it all to you.”

Dr Fortescue laid twelve stingers across the bare white bottom. It looked like a map of Clapham Junction railway by the time he finished. Lines criss-crossed across Cuckfield’s bum. They ran from north to south; and left to right, often intersecting. The cheeks glowed red hot with a claret-coloured sheen. Even now bruises were forming, within the hour they would be a deep purple. By the time Cuckfield crawled into bed they would be mauve. A week later the final yellow traces would disappear.

The cuts were already welts. When gingerly he traced his buttocks with the tips of his fingers they felt like corrugated cardboard. No, not card, but leather. It was as if a crust had formed on his cheeks. The agony was intense, but even as Cuckfield rose from the chair and unsteadily reached down for his underpants and wriggled until they were back in their rightful place, it was easing. The ache was tremendous, like someone had assaulted him with a cheese grater. He found his trousers and abandoning any attempt to button his fly, he did up the waist and hands shaking buckled the belt.

His behind throbbed like crazy, he wouldn’t be able to sit for an hour. How could he travel home on the school bus? His head ached almost as much as his bottom. He didn’t see Dr Fortescue return the cane to its home. But he smelt the vile stench of his breath as he stood in front of him. “Something to say Cuckfield?” he jeered.

We all sometimes have that fantasy, that if we had a machinegun in our hands we would mow down all our enemies in a single sweep. Later that night in bed, bruised and battered Cuckfield would indulge himself with his version. For now, careful not to look at his tormentor, he took a deep breath. “Thank you for punishing me, sir. I deserved it,” spoken with a clear voice. He watched Dr Fortescue stumble to his desk, open a drawer and delve inside. He heard a dull thud as something rolled across the drawer. The headmaster growled, slammed the drawer shut and opened another. “Ha!” he exclaimed to nobody in particular. He took out a large hard-backed book, leafed through its pages until he found the right one. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote the date, noting that it already appeared five times. He wrote Cuckfield’s name and the details of the punishment.

He tossed the book onto the desk, turned it round so it faced Cuckfield. “Sign!” With a steady hand, he did so. “Dismissed Cuckfield. Send in the next boy!”

Picture credit: C H (Charles) Chapman – The Magnet

Other stories featuring The Tyrant Headmaster are here

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My houseboy Nate

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

Summer holiday camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

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The Dean of Dorm Discipline regularly beats misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in this free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

the-dean-of-dorm-discipline-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

 Picture credit: Unknown

Other books to download

 

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Wiping the slate clean

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zused paddle otk pants domestic bbfc (2)

I was on a downward spiral, totally out of control, about to crash and burn. Everything I did or touched turned to dust. I had no hope left. Before long I would be in the gutter, my life in ruins. Or even worse, they’d be scooping my dead body off a pavement. Then, Uncle Gavin came along and helped me to wipe the slate clean.

My Dad died when I was thirteen. I’m not blaming him for what happened next, I’m just trying to put it into context. He had a heart attack and was gone. Mum was devastated, but I’m not blaming her either. I have no excuses, I know that now.  It was down to me. I have learnt to take responsibility for my actions; Uncle Gavin taught me that.

Dad left us well provided, so mine isn’t a story a story of depravation, of a boy reduced to abject poverty. Mum had her job working in an office for the Council. We were pretty well off. There was only me and her. We didn’t go without.

I don’t know if I’m a bright lad or not. I never applied myself at school. I wasn’t interested, so I never worked. I know you’re going to say, “You must have been interested in something,” and you’d be right. I should have made the effort, but I didn’t. Some would ask, “Isn’t it the job of teachers to make kids interested in learning?” I don’t blame them, looking back I can see they tried. Some of them very hard.

So, I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. I drifted a bit and ended up bouncing from one job to another. I flipped burgers for a while, put leaflets around the doors for a double-glazing firm, and delivered pizza on a bike. I couldn’t keep any of them. Mostly I got bored and didn’t turn up for work and before long they “let me go,” which is modern-speak for “sacked me.” I resented them at the time, said they didn’t understand me. Said they should give a man his “space.” I was talking bollocks, of course. I know that now, thanks to Uncle Gavin. What “space” did I need? What was I going to do when I got it?

I ended up at the Tesco supermarket, working unloading trucks and filling shelves. That went well and I sort of enjoyed it. There were lots of lads like myself, just having a laugh and getting away with as much as we could. We spent more energy skiving work than we ever put into our jobs. A few of us would steal bottles of booze and in the evening take them over to the waste ground and get pissed. I was also smoking a lot of dope at the time. I was out of my head more often than not.

We got caught thieving the booze eventually. I now can see I was dead lucky. They could have got the police onto us and taken us to court. We were bang to rights, we’d get community service or something, I suppose. We would have just laughed, but it would mean a criminal record.

It broke Mum’s heart. Me a thief. I didn’t care. Long before that I had stopped doing what she told me. I still lived at home but I came and went as I liked. She stopped cooking for me in the end, I missed so many meals.

It was about this time, I was sweet eighteen, that I was hurtling on that downward spiral I told you about. Then, Uncle Gavin came into my life. Uncle Gavin is Mum’s brother. I didn’t see much of him as I was growing up as he worked abroad a lot. He was a teacher and he worked in Africa for years, but I don’t know why he had to come home.

Now, he was back he found out about me. Mum told him everything, I suppose, especially about how upset she was. That was when Uncle Gavin took charge. I’m surprised I let him. Why would I care what old people thought of me and my mates? He told me he knew all about me and my kind. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t put me down at all. He just said he was an “educator” and he knew about these things. I didn’t have a clue what an “educator” was but it turns out it’s a teacher. Not only a teacher, you know somebody who teaches you a subject like maths or geography, he was into the whole growth of the young person. Well, something like that.

He was very friendly with me. I can’t say we were actually “friends”, we didn’t go drinking together or smoke weed. But, he didn’t put me down at all. He said he wanted to “understand” what I was feeling. He said he wanted to help me. It sounded like bollocks.

But, it wasn’t. The first thing that happened was he said I should think carefully about what I wanted in life. He was very insistent it should be what I wanted, not anybody else. Then, I had to make a plan that would get me from where I was to where I wanted to be. He called in a “roadmap”. He said I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take control of my life.

He was so persuasive that I soon came round to the idea. He said I should write down a list of what he called “objectives”; when I had done that I should plan how to achieve them. He said it might take some time – years even – but to take it one step at a time.

I realised it wasn’t bollocks after all. I liked the idea. Uncle Gavin said it would be a good idea if I moved out of home. It would give me a rest from Mum and would give me some of that space I talked about. He said I could move in with him. He has a huge house in some place called Brocklehurst, which is a small town. He had plenty of room for me. He said it would get me out of my “environment” and bad influences. I could make a fresh start.

So I packed a couple of bags and away I went. Uncle found me a job. It was filling shelves. He didn’t tell them I had form for thieving. He said he trusted me not to do it again. He said I was a “good lad”, which I knew wasn’t true. I suppose he was trying to be kind.

He set me down to make that list of objectives. It was hard work. I had always moaned that I was bored and couldn’t find things to interest me. Uncle Gavin gave me some help. I decided I should try to go to college. I should try to get a trade of some sort – a plumber or electrician maybe.

Uncle Gavin reminded me I should take it one step at a time. He said I still had to learn some basics about life. He said he knew a lot about this, him being an “educator” and all. He told me I might be eighteen but I was far from being an adult. I couldn’t be an “adult” until I had learned self-discipline.  It was all about taking responsibilities for my actions. He said he could help me with this.

By now I liked Uncle Gavin. I could see he had my best interests at heart. I knew if I did what he told me I could turn my life around. I trusted him. Shortly after I moved in with him and I started on my list of “objectives” he said to me that in the school where he taught he had a way to encourage better behaviour in pupils. He said it worked a treat. Unfortunately, he told me, those ways were no longer fashionable in this country.

I didn’t understand him. Oh, he said to me, it’s quite simple. You have a set of rules. You keep to them and everything is hunky-dory (whatever that means). You don’t stick to them, you get punished. I understood that all right. It was what he did next that threw me. We were in the living room and he went over to a drawer in a sideboard and took out a block of wood. It was dark brown and polished to a shine. It was a rectangle with a handle at one end. I must have looked puzzled because he said, “It’s a paddle. It’s what we used at the school.”

I’d never seen such a thing before but I got what he was talking about when he said, “It’s for spanking.” He held it by the handle and tapped it against his open left palm. It looked pretty heavy from where I stood. “Do you understand what I mean?” he asked. I must have coloured up and got a bit tongue-tied because I couldn’t say anything. “Do you?” he asked again.

Then he answered his own question. “You set your objectives, we agree them. You work hard to meet them,” he looked thoughtfully at the paddle in his hand, “that’s fine. You don’t then ..” he smacked it into his palm. I remember the thwack it made against the flesh.

I can’t really explain what I thought about it. I’m not very good with words, but somehow what he was saying made sense. Work hard, get rewarded. Don’t, get punished. We talked about it and because I trusted Uncle Gavin and reckoned he had my best interests at heart we agreed that’s how we’d go.

“Good,” he said, and I knew he was genuinely pleased. “You are a good lad,” he said and then hesitated, “No,” he said, “You can be a good lad, but you haven’t been very good up to now, have you?” I knew he was talking about my stealing, not keeping a job, giving Mum a hard time. “No,” I agreed, “I haven’t.”

“D’you know what?” he said, it wasn’t really a question, “You need to atone for you past.” I didn’t know what “atone” meant and I said so. I could ask Uncle Gavin anything. “You need to be punished for your past misdeeds.” I suppose I looked unsure so he said, “That way you wipe the slate clean. Start with a new beginning.” He didn’t say, “Turn over a new leaf,” but I got his drift.

He picked up the paddle and stared down at it. “I want you to take down your trousers,” he sat down in a chair, “and then come and bend across my knee.” He gripped the paddle in his right fist. “You need to be spanked. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Again, I can’t find the words I need. Spanked. I need to be spanked. Until that day it had never entered my mind that I needed to be spanked. Uncle Gavin must have known I would be a bit dumbfounded. He said, “It will hurt a very great deal. That is the point. But you will have atoned and after you will feel very much better. Put your past behind you. Look to the future.”

Uncle Gavin was very convincing. I did want a better, brighter tomorrow. I trusted him to help me find it. If he said I needed to be spanked, then who could argue? “Take down your trousers,” he said. His voice was coming from miles away. I don’t know what came over me. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. An eighteen-year-old in need of discipline, taking down his trousers before bending over his uncle’s knee for a sound spanking with a paddle.

I remember I was wearing sweatpants and they had elastic at the waist so I just gripped hold of them and tugged them down. They bunched up at the knees. It was a warm day and I only wore a t-shirt. “Come and bend over my knee,” Uncle Gavin spoke softly; he didn’t bark an order. He wasn’t forcing me to do anything I didn’t want. I was some distance from him and with the sweats now slipping down my shins I had to waddle like a penguin across the room.

I stood a little to his right and looked down. Uncle was in jeans and a t-shirt as well. He parted his legs a little bit. He didn’t say anything at this point but I understood this was to give me a platform to drape my body over. I had never been spanked (obviously) so I was travelling on instinct. I looked down at Uncle’s lap and placing both hands on his knee I leaned forward and lowered myself down. “Put your arms in front of you. Palms on the floor. I don’t want you trying to reach back.” I followed his instructions. My legs took care of themselves and stretched behind me. My toes didn’t quite reach the floor. I couldn’t see but it felt like my bum was pointing up at an angle over Uncle Gavin’s thigh. I must have been in a perfect position because Uncle took hold of me around the waist with his left hand and began to rub the paddle over my bum.

My pants were tight and had ridden up my crack; they fitted me like a second skin. I lay in position waiting. I remember I was perfectly calm. There was no fuss. Uncle Gavin had not manhandled me across his knee. There had been no dispute, no unseemly fight. I had submitted to him. He had explained why I needed to be spanked and I agreed. Of course, I didn’t know then how much a spanking on the underpants with a paddle would hurt. If I did I might not have been so calm.

I soon found out. Uncle Gavin patted my bottom with the paddle. He took aim at the underside of the cheeks where, I suppose, there was most padding (my bum was pert and hard in those days). He lifted the wood and smacked it down with tremendous force. It knocked all the air out of me. I gasped with shock. I had no time to recover before a second, third and fourth swat pounded into my bum. My legs flailed and my body twisted left and right. It looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. Uncle Gavin gripped my waist tighter and began to take my arse off with that paddle.

I have no other words to describe it. The pain was intense. Each thwack into the stretched flesh felt as if he had pressed Mum’s hot iron into me. My bum was on fire. Uncle Gavin had promised me a severe spanking and that was what he gave. My groans and gasps turned to sobs. I was never openly crying, not bawling like a kid, but my eyes were flooded by the time he let me up.

I have no idea how long he spanked me for. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: to me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my sweats up. The agony in my bum was easing into a hard throbbing; soon it would become a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down for hours.

“Come here,” Uncle Gavin was still seated in the chair. He opened his arms to me and I stepped into them. He hugged my tightly. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Now, go to your room and think about the bright future we can create together.”

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

At the Hotel Spanko

new story 2

waiter by kane

“Look at those boys down there, they might as well have For Sale signs around their necks.”

“Yes, they are rather lush. Which do you prefer?”

“The blond one in the green trunks is rather something.”

“Yes, I’d take him across my knee. Not that the trunks would stay on for long.”

“How do we do this?”

“The waiter Charles will make all the arrangements. He’s very discreet.”

“Is this your first time here?”

“Yes, but I’ve heard a lot about it – on the grapevine.”

“I stay here all the time, We call it Hotel Spanko, they’re very accommodating here. Ha! here comes Clifton.”

“Hello chaps, I’ve just had the most wonderful time with the bellboy.”

“Which one? The small one or the big lanky fellow.”

“The small one. Ginger do they call him? Looks like a  naughty little schoolboy. Delicious. Lovely round bottom. Surprisingly soft. I could have spanked it all day long.

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I rather like the other fellow. Tall and skinny. He’d look wonderful draped over the back of one of those large leather armchairs in the lounge. Lovely. Head low in the cushion, bottom held high. The manager said he would try to arrange an exhibition. Give us the opportunity to take his B.T.M. off with a thin, whippy cane. I for one can’t wait.

retro bellboy hotel barbasol for better shaving, 1934

“You’ll have to forgive me. I have to go. I’ve been summoned to see Mr Talbot Wynyard at his rooms. They caught me smoking my cigar out of bounds.”

“Crikey. They call him the Victorian Master. He’s brutal. It’ll be a caning for sure. Trousers at the ankles, underwear at the knees I shouldn’t wonder.”

cane older man couch cs

“Oh I do hope so! See you later by the pool? I hear they have a new lifeguard, he’s said to be quite a dish. They say he takes the younger lads over his knee if they take a dip without their costumes on. That would be quite something to behold.

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“Oh look over there. I see Ridley Redway’s hooked himself a dish. Look at the legs on that boy. They go all the way up to his throat. Does he even have buttocks? They’re just a couple of acorns nestling inside those shorts. Lucky fellow Redway.

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“Yes. It’s making me very restless. Where’s Charles. I rather fancy I’ll take that boy in the green trunks back to my room. Of course, the other two are most welcome to join us. What about you? Are you in the mood for a spanking party?

retro short shorts threesome

“It is a very tempting offer but I’m already booked at the hotel gymnasium. The coach has lined up some very sweet young gentlemen for a session with the paddle. Frankly my dear, I just can’t wait.”

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“Have fun! Maybe I’ll catch you later at the crush bar. They have special entertainments during the Happy Hour. There was a luscious bit of rough in yesterday. Oh what a night I had with him. I can feel a shiver running up my spine just thinking about him. What an arse. I believe our American cousins call them ‘buns of steel’. Ha! Ha!”

gay bar by atsushi

“It’s Wednesday. Are they opening up the dungeon tonight do you know?”

“The dungeon? What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s for special guests. For those with discerning tastes. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, don’t you know.”

“Sounds great. See you there. Toodooloo!”

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The Hotel Spanko

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Picture credits: Kane / C of Sweden / Barbasol / C of Sweden / Unknown / Laurence Fellows / Unknown / Copper / Atsushi / Swarbrick / Unknown

 

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Fancy a quick one?

Damien’s mid-term results

The domestic service agreement

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com