Skipping school to watch football

Dai Griffiths pushed open the door of the pub. It was heaving inside. There was not even standing room. It was close to two in the afternoon; the match was about to start. He pushed his way through a group of young men dressed in Wales football strips. All around him there were dragon banners. On the huge television screens he saw two teams lining up ready for the national anthems. Soon the whole pub would erupt with the raucous sound of Land of My Fathers.

There was no way he was going to get to the bar. The Wales England Euro 2016 match had brought out most of the town. If Wales didn’t win they might be out of the competition. Dai stood on tiptoes searching for his pals from work. He couldn’t see them. They could be anywhere.

But he did see four lads near to the bar. They were dressed in white shirts and grey trousers. He recognised them at once. They weren’t from his work. One was his son Bramwell. Bramwell was eighteen; he had a bottle of Heineken lager in his hand. He should have been at school. All four should. It was obvious to anyone they were schoolboys. They must have ditched their school blazers and ties somewhere, Dai, thought with mounting anger.

They were skiving off school. Now, with their A-level exams on all week. Didn’t they have maths in the morning?

If he could have reached the boy he would have given him a right bollocking and sent him back to school. He didn’t care if half the pub heard. Some would probably jeer him. Skipping school wasn’t unheard of in the town.

A chorus of the Welsh National Anthem started up. Dai groaned, squeezed his way to the door and hurried across the road to The Hen. Maybe it wouldn’t be so crowded there.

Later, Dai Griffiths sat impatiently at home waiting for his son’s arrival. He was in a foul mood; Wales had lost 2-1 to a goal in stoppage time. The hated English had in all probability knocked Wales out of the tournament.

He was angry with his son. He was a scholarship boy at a prestigious school; he could go to university and have a proper career; unlike himself. He worked for the local council; always had. Always would. He demanded more from his only son. And, he would make sure he got it.

At last the front door opened. “Bramwell come in here!”

The eighteen-year-old paused; alarmed. He recognised that tone. He was in deep trouble with his dad. This would not end well. He sidled into the parlour and found Mr Griffiths pacing the room. His father peered at him; the teenager was back in his blue-and-black blazer and school tie. He looked very smart.

“Come here,” Mr Griffiths barked. The boy shuffled forward reluctantly. Even from a distance Mr Griffiths caught the whiff of peppermint on Bramwell’s breath. “Where have you been?”

The boy shuffled his feet, he could already feel his cheeks flushing. “Nowhere. Just out,” he mumbled. His heart thumped so loud he was certain his dad could hear it.

Mr Griffiths emitted a throaty noise. It sounded like he was choking. “Don’t lie to me …!” He glared at the boy in front of him. Already the lad was close to tears.

Bramwell hated his father. He despised everything about him. He hated that he was a manual worker, that he had probably never read a book in his life. He hated the way he was forced to live in terror of his father. He couldn’t wait to take his school exams and escape to university. He would never return to this shithole.

“I saw you at The Feathers. You were drinking beer. You should be at school. You have exams!”

Bramwell sucked in a great gulp of air. One day he hoped he would pluck up the courage to tell his father to go to hell. One day, perhaps, but not this day. He mumbled, “Sorry,” and stared down at the beige carpet.

“You know what must happen now,” Mr Griffiths reached for the buckle of his wide leather belt. Bramwell’s eyes blazed as he watched his father slowly pull the belt through the loops of his heavy trousers.

“But, I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. I’m too old for this.” Bramwell wanted to say it, but he knew it was pointless to argue. His dad ruled the roost. It was his house. His rules. His punishments. It was so unfair.

Mr Griffiths doubled up his belt. It was a fine specimen; a perfect tool to beat his son’s backside. It was heavy, thick, nearly two-inches wide and made from cowhide. It would teach the boy a lesson. “Take off your blazer. Put it on the table,” and in case there was any doubt, he waved the belt at the dining room table. Then he stood by an old worn settee.

Miserably, Bramwell slipped the blazer from his shoulders. He couldn’t stop his hands shaking as he laid it neatly on the table top.

“Come here,” his father stood feet slightly apart, tapping the thick black belt into the palm of his left hand. Bramwell slouched forward, he could smell the beer on his father’s breath. The boy stood for a moment, attempting defiance. He shot his father a look of contempt. How he hated the pathetic old man. How he despised himself for allowing his dad to spank him.

“You know the drill,” his father glowered. “Get on with it.”

Bramwell fumbled with the buckle of his own belt. He couldn’t get his fingers to work. They were numbed by his humiliation. “Do you want me to do it for you?” his father sneered.

At last the belt was undone. He undid the clasp at his waistband and then tugged at the zipper tab until the front of his trousers was wide open. Gravity took them down his thighs and they snagged at his knees. Bramwell shot his father a pitying look. The old man wrinkled his nose with contempt. There would be no pity that evening. Bramwell hooked his thumbs into the elasticated waistband of his Boxer shorts and with the merest flick sent them to meet his grey school trousers.

His buttocks were now bared. His cock and balls hung limply. He closed his eyes and counted to three in his head; then he leaned forward and slowly lowered himself over the settee. He was five-feet-ten tall and his body easily cleared the back. He pushed his arms out and gripped the far edge of the seat cushion. In this position his face stared down at the huge dandelion that dominated the cushion’s floral pattern.

Mr Griffiths swished his belt through empty air. He always did this before delivering the first whack, although it served no purpose. Then he lay the leather across the centre of his son’s buttocks, pulled his arm back and let fly. It was a perfect hit and he was rewarded with a thick red stipe across both cheeks. Bramwell sucked in air.

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Lashes two and three fell in quick succession. Now there was a scarlet stripe about three inches wide across the teenager’s backside. It was tingling, but the pain was not too great. But, Bramwell knew from experience they had a long way to go before he would be released to his bedroom.

Mr Griffiths had delivered whack number twelve when the front door opened and closed. Bramwell’s fifteen-year-old sister Meredith had arrived home. Bramwell blanched. His already fast-beating heart quickened.

“Meredith, come in here!”

The girl obeyed without question. She stood at the threshold of the room. What she saw was her eighteen-year-old brother, bent over the back of the settee. His trousers and shorts were in a puddle at his feet and his naked bottom was glowing red hot. She blushed almost as scarlet as her brother’s backside.

Mr Griffiths turned to his daughter. “Wait there. I want you to see what will happen if I ever catch you skipping school.” Oblivious to the girl’s terror, he raised the belt once more and brought it crashing down with a resounding crack into Bramwell’s naked flesh.

The aching in the teenager’s bum was mounting. It had started as a tingle, turned to a throb and then became pounding pain. Not one square inch of his buttocks was untouched by the leather belt. Bramwell clung onto the seat cushion valiantly. He wouldn’t cry, he told himself. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

When you have been under the lash as often as Bramwell you develop a high pain threshold. A less experienced boy would be hollering and howling by now. It was true Bramwell’s buttocks quivered and squirmed and occasionally his hips wriggled. These were involuntary reflex actions. It was the body’s natural way of coping with the intense onslaught.

Satisfied that there was no part of his son’s buttocks left untoasted, Mr Griffiths sent the leather whacking across the back of Bramwell’s thighs. As any boy who has ever been spanked knows, that is the most sensitive part of the target area. Waves of agony shot up and down Bramwell’s legs. He stamped his feet. Then he wrapped his left foot around his right ankle. His knees buckled a little. His lips pursed to make a perfect “O” shape; but he did not cry out.

There was a pause. Bramwell’s breathing was shallow. Blood rushed throughout his body, he thought his ears would pop. Nearly over, he thought. Just one last onslaught.

His father adjusted the belt in his hand. Using the buckle end of the belt meant that not only did he have the weight of a leather strap to flog Bramwell’s cheeks, but a sturdy piece of metal, with a sharp point, would take the teenager’s arse off. After six strokes, small cuts ran across the crest of the boy’s mounds. The flesh looked a little like raw hamburger meat in places.

Mr Griffiths always stopped when blood was drawn.

“Up.” It was a terse command. Bramwell didn’t need telling twice. He rose from the settee at speed, bent down and tugged up his Boxers over his scorching arse. The touch of cotton on savaged skin sent another wave of pain across his bum. Undeterred, he bent again and dragged up his trousers. His hands shook violently as he zipped and fastened up.

“No more skipping school. Go to your room and revise for your exam,” his father growled.

Bramwell mumbled something. It could have been “Yes,” it could have been “No.”

“Go,” his father barked.

Not daring to look at his sister who rocked thunderstruck in the doorway, he pushed past her and took the stairs two at a time in his rush to reach his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him and dived onto the bed and pummeled his fists into the pillows. “I hate you, you bastard!” he yelled; confident that his father could not hear. “One day I’ll stick a fucking knife in you!”

Downstairs, his father replaced his belt around his trousers and reached into a cupboard and took out a bottle of Brains beer. He popped the top and took a long swig. How much trouble would he be in with his boss tomorrow for skiving off work to watch the match, he wondered?

 

Other stories you might like.

By order of the court

Warren’s awakening

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

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“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In the latest free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

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Another book available to download free-of-charge.

PAUL AND HIS LANDLORD

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

Life in the not-too-distant future

Previously in Changed Times

A glimpse into the near future

Neighbourhood watch

The police station

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“If there is any repeat of this, I shall not hesitate to cane you severely,” he said adding with great emphasis, “on the bare bottom.”

The three twenty-year-old men standing in front of the desk stood hands clasped behind their back and stared passively at the ground; their faces colouring slightly.

“You know that I am permitted to do this; I am sure you follow the news like everybody else.”

Mr Hodgson bristled a little. Still the three apprentices at Global Petroleum would not meet his eye. “Look at me when I speak to you,” he growled.

Slowly and with great trepidation they raised their heads. Mr Hodgson surveyed them slowly. They were dressed in the company’s apprentice uniform; pale grey trousers, gleaming white shirts and striped ties. All three had abandoned their black company blazers in their own office. Their hair was cut neatly short. Ears and necks clearly visible. All three were free of tattoos. They wouldn’t have been employed otherwise.

“We take our responsibilities very seriously here at GP. That includes our responsibilities to you. If you cannot follow the rules and behave appropriately I shall ensure that you are taught an exemplary lesson,” Mr Hodgson said.

Following the decision in the referendum for the UK to leave the EU, there had been an upsurge of nationalism. The New Democrat Party had swept to power in the general election that followed. They were misnamed being neither New, since they harked back to some supposed golden age when people knew their places the young were deferential to their elders and the Church was respected. They were not Democratic as a wave of authoritarianism had swept the country. The young were the first to feel the brunt.

Corporal punishment was reintroduced to schools after an absence of thirty-five years. It was widely welcomed by teachers and parents, if not the pupils themselves. It then made perfect sense to extend corporal punishment to colleges and universities. Within a year birching was introduced as judicial punishment in the law courts for a wide range of offences. Now, apprentices in the workplace were also to be subjected to beatings. Nobody under the age of thirty would be spared.

Mr Hodgson was a leading light in the local New Democrat Party and held the position of internal affairs minister in the local council cabinet. He was a strong supporter of the new corporal punishment policy, believing that young people had lost their way; witness the way they scarred their bodies with tattoos.

Mr Hodgson believed it was the duty of older and wiser people to guide the young. He was a man who believed in duty. Duty to the Party, duty to the country and duty to the young.

He took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in “Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.” He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.

Actually, Mr Hodgson discovered the actual punishment was indeed simple. You slashed a slender rattan cane at high speed across the bared buttocks of the delinquent. There were many sizes and thicknesses of cane to choose from, but the Government was trying to standardise things. Wherever possible the cane should be no longer than forty-inches and no thicker than a pencil.

They showed a short film. It looked pretty authentic, but none of the participants dared asked. It showed two men in their twenties. They were in an office environment; very similar to the one at GP. When instructed they lowered their trousers and pants and bent across a standard office desk. The film then demonstrated a number of caning techniques.

Mr Hodgson wriggled in his hard plastic chair as the voice-over said, “The slash of rattan against flesh causes an intense but temporary agony, and it leaves a swollen mark of a purplish colour across the buttocks. A cut stings intensely for a minute or two, then reduces to a constant throb for several hours. The buttocks are sore for a day or two, and the mark of the cane might be visible for as long as a week, though there is minimal pain after the initial application.”

After the film, they were given realistic mannequins to practice on. Some of Mr Hodgson’s fellow workshop participants thought it wasn’t enough simply to thrash plastic dummies. They took themselves off to a private room and caned one another. They felt it their duty to learn how painful a caning might be, since they were willingly inflicting it upon their younger charges. Mr Hodgson did not take part. He felt that was a learning experience too far.

The workshop told them that caning was meant as a deterrent. The idea was to stop bad behaviour. That meant repeated instances of mild misdemeanour was to be stamped on. “Nip it in the bud,” the workshop facilitator had said.

Mr Hodgson took that to heart. A deterrent. He wasn’t a cruel man, but he wanted obedience from his staff. The three young men standing sheepishly before him had been warned. Next time it would be a thrashing.

Ian Lucas was waiting outside the office. He had been warned previously. It had not made much effect.

“Send in Lucas,” Mr Hodgson growled, as he dismissed three mightily-relieved young men.

Moments later Lucas was standing in their place. He was dressed similar to them in every way except he also wore the black company blazer, with the GP logo on the breast pocket.

Lucas was aged twenty-one and very slim, almost thin. He stood about five-feet-eight. He had medium length dark brown hair, just long enough to start looking untidy, with a few curls around the ends. His face was cute, for a boy anyway, with long eyelashes. He had piercing brown eyes and full lips.

Mr Hodgson thought Lucas looked so young, he could easy pass for a sixth-former at one of the local schools. Except the schools now demanded pupils from the youngest to the most senior boys wore short trousers. Mr Hodgson thought it had something to do with the pupils being taught to remember that they were children and must obey their elders and betters. Mr Hodgson pictured Lucas in his GP uniform with grey short trousers. He would look very smart, he reckoned. Maybe before long apprentices would also be forced back into short trousers. Mr Hodgson, for one, would not object to that. Perhaps he would bring the subject up at the local council.

Lucas stood, his hands clasped behind his back. He knew why he had been called to the office. There could be only one outcome.

Mr Hodgson pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer, opened it and studied it carefully. There was no need for him to do so, he already knew its contents by heart. Lucas was not a bad lad, but he had been breaking small rules. Lucas was like a footballer about to be shown a yellow card for an accumulation of minor offences.

Except there was no yellow card; instead there would be a decidedly red bottom.

Mr Hodgson read from the document in a monotone voice. “You arrived late two mornings this month; you have been heard questioning your superiors’ authority to set you tasks; you were caught smoking in the toilet.”

Mr Hodgson finished reading and looked straight at Lucas. The boy avoided his boss’s eye and stared down at his feet.

“And, look at you,” Mr Hodgson had found a further complaint, “You need to get your hair cut.”

Lucas blushed.

“You have been warned before about the consequences of your behaviour, have you not?”

Lucas shrugged. Everything Mr Hodgson said was true. He had been a damned fool.

“Look at me young man. Have you been warned?”

Lucas’s dark brown eyes, usually so dreamy, betrayed his fear. Reluctantly, he raised his head and staring now at the desk in front of Mr Hodgson, he whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mr Hodgson spat back. “Then really you leave me with no alternative.” The workshop had taught Mr Hodgson that such behaviour needed to be nipped in the bud.

He rose from his desk and walked across his office. Alongside one wall there were shelves and cupboards. One cupboard was relatively new. It was tall and thin. Mr Hodgson slid open the door. Lucas continued studying his boss’s desk. It was a huge walnut rectangle, conspicuously devoid of any paperwork. Its top was bare, except for a telephone. Lucas did not need much imagination to work out why this might be so.

Behind him Lucas heard a strange hollow rattling sound. Mr Hodgson was rummaging in the cupboard. Lucas could not see but he could hear that there were several thin swishy rattan canes. Mr Hodgson was taking his time. Mr Hodgson believed in obeying rules. All the canes in his collection conformed to Government guidelines. That said, he had discovered that length and thickness were not to only attributes to a good punishment cane. There was also density. Two canes of similar length and thickness could deliver quite different punishments, depending on their density.

He pulled out a rattan that its manufactures marketed to schools as a “senior” cane. It was meant to be used across the backsides of senior schoolboys. It was the weapon of choice in sixth-form colleges and could make any eighteen-year-old’s backside very sore indeed.

When administered with some vigour across Lucas’s bared backside it would leave him in no doubt of the consequences of poor attitudes to work.

Mr Hodgson flexed the rod between his hands. It made a perfect arc. He swished it through empty air, delighting at the swoosh!! it made as it travelled. Lucas’s heart skipped a beat. Sweat began to form at his neck.

“Turn around and face me, Lucas,” Mr Hodgson swiped the cane through the air. Lucas’s bright brown eyes welled. Already, he could feel tears prickling.

Mr Hodgson had been Discipline Officer for more than four months. Lucas would not be the first young employee he had thrashed. At first, he was surprised at how submissively a youngster would present himself. He had expected there to be objection and protest. He soon realized that, of course, they had no choice. They either took their beatings or were dismissed from the company. Jobs were scarce and new laws had decreed that young unemployed people would not receive welfare benefits. Instead, they would be assigned to a camp where they would work under harsh conditions for wages that would just cover their accommodation and food.

A young man at Global Petroleum knew when he was onto a good thing.

“Take off your blazer and put it on that chair,” Mr Hodgson swished his cane and pointed to a low-backed easy chair. Despite trembling fingers, Lucas undid his jacket and slipped it off his shoulders.

“Now stand in front of my desk.”

Lucas obeyed without a murmur.

“Now lower your trousers and underpants and bend across the desk.” Another swish of the cane. “Right over.”

Lucas found his damned fingers were still reluctant to work. How difficult should it be to unbuckle a belt? Eventually it was loose. He popped the fastener at the top of his trousers and the front fell open. His fingers made a better job at pulling the zipper and gravity helped his pale-grey trousers slip down his thighs. They snagged at his knees, so he parted them a little and his trousers continued their slow journey to his ankles.

Mr Hodgson admired Lucas’s mauve-and-yellow tanga briefs. They were a snug fit and hardly kept the young man’s cock and balls in place. Mr Hodgson was becoming a bit of an expert on young men’s underwear fashion. He was a Boxer shorts man himself, but it seemed nobody under the age of twenty-five wore such things. Tightly fitting briefs seemed to be the order of the day.

It was irrelevant to the matter in hand. “Take down those briefs. Quickly. Please don’t dawdle.”

Lucas pinched the sides of his tangas and with the merest flick of the wrist he sent them south to meet his trousers. Instinctively, he cupped his hands to shield his groin from his boss’s gaze and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Mr Hodgson smiled inwardly. All the boys did that. Without exception.

“Bend across my desk please,” once again he swished the cane. This was Lucas’s first time, so Mr Hodgson gave specific instructions. “Lay your stomach on the desk, reach your hands in front of you and grab the far edge of the desk. It helps to lay one cheek on the surface of the desk. Keep your legs apart. Try not to bend your knees.”

They were clear instructions and Lucas was soon in the required position. The desk was huge and the young man struggled to get much of a grip on its far edge.

Mr Hodgson watched as Lucas wriggled into position. His bottom was perfectly placed to receive lashings from the cane. As bottoms went it was balder than most Mr Hodgson had seen and there was only a very light dusting of hair on his legs. His backside jutted noticeably from the thighs offering a sizeable area for the cane to do its work.

Mr Hodgson gripped the cane tightly in his right hand. It was almost ready to start. But not quite. He had a homily to deliver first. “You’re an adult, Lucas. Yet you’re over my desk to receive a caning with your trousers and briefs at your feet. Why? It’s because you still haven’t learned discipline. You haven’t accepted that the rules apply to you. Well, they do. This is what happens when you break them. I hope for your sake that you learn the lesson this time. I will warn you right now that I take canings very seriously. A caning does no good unless it’s a stiff one, and I make mine the stiffest.”

With that, Mr Hodgson lifted the cane and rather as a golfer might when teeing off he swung from the hips and brought it down with terrific force across the very centre of Lucas’s buttocks. The agonizing slice cut in wickedly, making Lucas squeal and rock and writhe violently. His legs marched up and down. He tried to grip the edge of the desk but it was too far away. Instead, he hammered his fists into the desktop.

Mr Hodgson looked on with deep satisfaction as a thick, dark red ridge immediately formed across Lucas’s backside.

The second slashed across the buttocks landing about a half inch below the first. Lucas was in living hell. Searing pain overwhelmed his senses. It was agony, pure agony. Thousands of nerve ends across his sensitive bum, throbbed. Another weal grew, swelled and pulsed across his burning bottom.

Lucas’s buttocks tossed and heaved. He was out of control. His hips writhed. His legs marched up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy. Keep still.” Mr Hodgson waited patiently for the apprentice to settle. Then, Swipe!! The cane felt to Lucas like it had sliced him in two. It was eating, burning into him. He writhed and moaned, yelped and wriggled his backside. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. His shoulders rose from the desk top. It was torture. Eventually, after what felt like a long minute or two, the sharpest intensity of pain subsided.

Then the fourth cut lashed down carving into the underside of his cheeks, down where they meet the thighs. The pain in his behind rose and flooded through him, intense and scorching. He thought he would die of the pain. His entire backside was on fire, all four stripes sent agonising messages of alarm to his brain. Tears spilled from his eyes and splashed across the polished wood.

The fifth stroke extended the pain. It was agonising. Lucas could not stop weeping. His lungs drained of air, he coughed and wheezed, gasping, desperately trying to take in oxygen.

Mr Hodgson had learnt his caning techniques well. For the sixth and final stroke, he moved his position slightly, aimed the cane diagonally across both of Lucas’s cheeks and swung it at full force so it landed across each of the previous five cuts. The apprentice’s buttocks were now tattooed with the image of a five-bar gate.

He howled and he howled. The slash had reignited the agony of all five cuts and added more of its own. Tiny droplets of blood trickled from points where the final cut intersected the others. Lucas marched his feet up and down. His bum felt like someone had rubbed his mother’s smoothing iron across it.

Mr Hodgson stood and watched the boy who was face down across his desk, gasping for his life. He was like a beached dolphin. Mr Hodgson was hugely satisfied with his work.

“I hope you have learned your lesson. Remember I shall not hesitate to repeat the medicine if you continue to infringe the rules,” Mr Hodgson intoned pompously. “You should get up now.”

Lucas hauled himself to his feet. The pain was easing slightly. His eyes blazed almost as much as his bottom. He wiped his tear-stained face. Then, not daring to look at his tormentor, the apprentice slowly, very slowly, bent down to retrieve his trousers and pants. Then with trembling hands he put on his blazer.

Mr Hodgson replaced the cane in its resting place.

“You are dismissed, Lucas.”

The apprentice shuffled to the door, opened it and left the office. He felt the eyes of his fellow workers burn into him as he made his way to his desk.

Mr Hodgson sat at his desk and opened a folder. It was time to resume his work.

 

Other stories you might like.

University student late for class

The sneak thief

Late at the office

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Memories of Uncle Edgar

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Now that I’ve hurtled past my eightieth year I find my short-term memory is shot to pieces. I couldn’t tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning. I’m not even sure I had breakfast this morning. But, while I live in a constant fog my memories of days long ago remain crystal clear. I know this because of a photograph I found today. It was in an album I had long forgotten, tucked away in a suitcase I hadn’t carried in three decades, collecting dust on the top of a wardrobe in a room I had not entered since before the Millennium.

It was a picture of me and Cedric, my great chum of the time. I am the one in the armchair. What you cannot see is Uncle Edgar. Uncle Edgar was the one taking the photograph. He was not my real uncle. Rather, he was a middle-aged gentleman who rented out rooms in his large house to male students. He also took it upon himself to take an interest in what he termed our “moral welfare.” This was the early nineteen-sixties and what later became known as the “permissive society” was just about starting. Who knows what depths of depravity we might have sunk too without Uncle Edgar’s attentions.

Uncle encouraged us to be energetic and sporting. You can see that Cedric was a keen badminton player. Myself, I preferred the rather more sedate game of snooker. I became rather proficient at it. This was much to Uncle’s chagrin. For, I spent rather more time than he liked in snooker halls, playing the game for money against many of the town’s more ruffian elements.

I have to confess my snooker playing interfered somewhat with my studies at the university. Uncle Edgar was far from pleased when I failed an important examination. I soon found myself bent across the back of the very armchair in which I am sitting in the picture. It was a rather large chair and I was (and still am) a rather short fellow. I was obliged to stand on my tip-toes in order to reach across the chair and clutch onto the front of its cushion.

You cannot see it in the photograph but on the opposite side of the room from the bookcase was another set of shelves, above two drawers. It was in the top of these drawers that Uncle Edgar kept his array of punishment instruments. It was no surprise, since Uncle was a product of the English public school system, that chief among his treasures was an array of whippy curved-handled rattan canes. But, he had a variety of other disciplinary tools. I remember on one occasion Cedric, who was dressed rather as he is in the picture in only his underwear, was obliged to present himself across Uncle’s rather bony legs for a severe spanking with an American-style wooden paddle.

I was not privileged to witness the spanking, but I did later see the deep crimson marks that Uncle left across Cedric’s buttocks and the back of his legs. The pain was incredible, as was the humiliation involved. In those days a chap expected to be instructed to present himself stoically for a thrashing. That meant bending over, perhaps touching one’s toes, or possibly draping oneself over a piece of furniture, such as that armchair or the desk in Uncle’s study. But being taken across the knees for a spanking? That kind of thing belonged in the nursery.

I had never been caned before I lodged with Uncle Edgar. I went to a grammar school that had rather liberal attitudes to corporal punishment. I don’t believe the cane was actually banned, rather the headmaster, who I later learned had Quaker leanings, did not believe in using physical violence. Uncle Edgar was no pacifist. Indeed, he was of the school of thought who believed a sound caning should be used as a first resort to deal with wrongdoing. Thus, six-of-the-best across the backside could, in his eyes, equally serve as a punishment or a deterrent to future bad behaviour.

Although, I had not been beaten as a schoolboy, that could not be said of the other chums in the house. Cedric had been the school captain at St Tom’s, a minor public school in the West Country. “Public” schools in England are in fact private fee-paying schools. They claim to offer a traditional education for the sons of the wealthy. At St Tom’s one of those traditions was allowing the school captain the use of the cane. Thus, by the time he went up to the university, Cedric was well experienced in both receiving and in administering corporal punishment.

My fellow tenants saw nothing unusual in Uncle Edgar’s methods and since I did not want to seem out of place, I went along with them too. At university I had something of an inferiority complex, due to having only attended a state grammar rather than an exclusive public school.

I had no choice but to tell Uncle Edgar of my examination failure. He took a keen interest in our studies and we were obliged to inform him of our grades and he read through the comments our university dons made on our essays.

Uncle was an imposing man. He must have stood at six-feet-four and he towered over me. His shoulders were broad and his head seemed to squat on them. His arms were powerful as my backside would attest. He lectured me for some time about my snooker habits. He had hardly finished berating me before he strode across the room and opened the drawer. It was a bit stiff and he had to tug hard. I could hear the thin canes rattling.

He reached in and swiftly snatched up a cane. He peered at it intently as if seeing it for the first time and then swished it through the air. He appeared satisfied that the rod in his hand would perform the task he had for it. He wobbled the cane at the armchair.

“Turn it round.” Uncle was a man of few words. But when he spoke he expected to be listened to. And, when he gave an instruction, he expected it to be obeyed. Disobedience was not an option. Meekly I gripped the arms of the chair and swivelled it so that now its back faced into the middle of the room.

“Bend over.” He tapped the top of the chair with his cane in case there was any doubt what he meant.

I sucked in a lungful of air. I knew Uncle’s reputation. I was not in the least surprised to find myself facing a whippy cane. With my heart pounding, I turned and faced the chair. It had a high back and I could not quite get my body across it, so I leaned into it. But, clearly in this position my bottom was not raised sufficiently for uncle’s satisfaction.

“Right over,” he barked, “Raise your backside high.”

I was rewarded with, “That’s right,” when I stood on tip-toe and stretched forward, wriggling my hips and buttocks. I was now staring at a large indenture in the seat. This chair had seen a lot of action in its time.

It was the first time, but not the last, that I received what for my house chums had been the traditional schoolboy beating. The first swipe sank deep into my buttocks. It felt like he had placed a red hot wire across them. Uncle Edgar took my backside off. It was as if he were beating a carpet, he used so much force to connect his rattan cane with my stretched bum. By the third stroke I was writhing across the chair. By number four, which he placed on the spot where the cheeks meet the thighs, my hips and buttocks were swaying. By the sixth, which he placed diagonally across my bum so it landed across the five welts that had already formed, I was stomping my feet up and down.

Later, when I had been dismissed to my room, I observed purplish bruises had already formed. There were six distinct double-edged lines. Uncle Edgar had a perfect aim. He ought to, he had enough practice. I know it’s a cliché, but the marks really did resemble a five-bar gate. I pressed my fingers firmly into my scorched flesh to deliberately increase the pain in my throbbing bum and the sense of euphoria I felt. My head was exceptionally clear.

It was the nineteen-sixties and all around me at university students were taking drugs to try to blow their own minds. They could keep their marijuana. This was my drug of choice. I couldn’t begin to count the number of canings or spankings I have received since that first time. Nor, the number that I have given. I may be an old man now with not many years left, but, the sheer joy of corporal punishment will never leave me.

 

 

More stories you might like

Caught smoking

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

The night porter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Brocklehurst Crammer

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“We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

 

Brocklehurst Crammer, a new story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Paul and his landlord

paul-cover-pic

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is the latest in a series of collections of my stories being published on Mondays. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Another book available for download free-of-charge.

TALES FROM THE STUDY 1. St FRANCIS INDEPENDENT GRAMMAR SCHOOL

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

used uniform shorts white shirt (61)

I have my own key so I can let myself into the house. I am late home from school. I’ve been in detention. I hope granddad doesn’t find out. He said the next time he took me across his knee I’d have my trousers at my ankles.

It’s five-thirty and he isn’t due back from work until six, so I have time to change out of my long trousers and start on my homework before he gets in. I am eighteen years old but he makes me wear short trousers.

I have to wear my school uniform all the time; even at weekends. When I moved in with him about two months ago he took away all my jeans and long trousers and said, “I am going to put you back in short trousers.”

He lets me wear long trousers to school, but the moment I get home I have to take them off and leave them in the sitting room. Then he locks them away so I can’t get at them. He brings them out again at breakfast time.

He said there were two reasons why I had to go back into short trousers. One, was that at eighteen I was not yet an adult and I had to remember that. I was too big for my britches; I needed to be taken down a peg or two. I should do as I was told, respect my elders, and behave myself at all times.

The second reason he put me in short trousers was to stop me going out the house. He said I spent too much time in the evenings hanging around the bus stops with my friends and at weekends nobody knew where I was. He reckoned I should be at home doing my homework, or reading or engaging in what he called “improving activities,” whatever they’re meant to be.

He said I wouldn’t be so keen to go out the house if I was wearing my school uniform with short trousers and long grey knee socks.

He was dead right. These are not leisure shorts; the kind you would wear in warm weather. These are proper trousers that are short and come to an inch above the knee. They are made of polyester and viscose, and are dark grey and have sharp creases in them. If you saw someone in the street wearing these there’s no way you would recognise them as anything but school uniform short trousers.

The label says they are the size for fifteen-year-old boys. But, they have an elasticated waist so they fit me perfectly.

I moved in with granddad when my dad’s work sent him to Pakistan. My mum went with him as well. They’re only away for three months so I’ll soon be out of this hell-hole. My granddad is not the cuddly old gramps they show you on kids’ TV. My grandad is a tyrant. He rules with an iron fist, or more truthfully as I discovered soon after I moved in, with a wooden paddle.

Don’t go away with the idea that because he’s a granddad he’s a wizened old man. No way. He’s still in his fifties and he’s been working out at the gym for the past thirty years. Even his muscles have muscles. He has real presence. If he’s in a room, everyone notices. If he tells you to jump; you don’t argue, you just say, “how high?”

He calls me “Charles.” Nobody calls me Charles. Mum and dad call me “Charlie” and the kids at school call me “H.” That’s H for Hamilton, which is my surname. My full name is Charles Hamilton the Second. Granddad is called Charles Hamilton and my dad is Charles Hamilton Junior. If I ever have a son they’ll expect me to call him Charles Hamilton the Third. It’s like Royalty; everyone’s got the same name.

There are lots of rules in granddad’s house. I have to do my homework as soon as I get in and have it finished no later than nine. He checks that I’ve done it and then later he checks the marks I got for it. He knows all my grades at school and I will get into deep trouble if they drop. I have to be in bed by nine-thirty and up and ready for school by seven-thirty. I’m not allowed to watch TV and there’s no Internet connection. I am cast adrift from all my friends.

And he spanks me.

Spanks me. Is that even legal? My dad has never raised a finger to me in all my life. Even when I am behaving really stroppy I don’t think it would even occur to him to put a belt across my backside.

Not so, granddad. The paddle came out on my second day here. I gave him a mouthful when he told me to get the vacuum cleaner out and attack the carpets. Big mistake.

Have you ever seen a paddle? I hadn’t. It’s just a piece of wood really – with a handle attached. Granddad’s paddle is not much bigger than a paperback book. It’s like a scaled-down version of the chopping board my mum has in her kitchen.

So there we were: granddad and me. He was sat in a chair holding the paddle and I was standing with my mouth gaping open.

“Bend over my knee.”

He said it like he actually expected me to do it. What person in their right mind offers themselves up so that they can be spanked with a paddle (or anything else for that matter)? Surely you would run a mile and your granddad would have to chase after you taking swipes while trying to hit your bum or the back of your legs.

“Bend over my knee,” he said. And I did. I said granddad had presence and if he said “jump”, you jumped. Or in this case, if he said, “Bend over,” then over you bent.

Have you ever been bent over somebody’s knee for a spanking? Grandad was about my height and you might have thought I was too big to go over his knee. Not so. He spread his legs apart by about a yard to give me the perfect platform to lie across. His legs were very muscular and surprisingly comfortable.

My face was a few inches above the carpet (he was right, it did need vacuuming) and my legs were stretched out behind me. My toes couldn’t quite reach the floor so I was left dangling a bit. Then granddad man-handled me over his lap until he had my bum just where he wanted it. I did not resist; I just let him get on with it.

I had no idea what a spanking was like, but I reckoned it couldn’t hurt much. I’m eighteen and a pretty fit boy; there couldn’t be much that the old man could do to me.

By the time he had finished moving me about my face was a little closer to the faded blue-and-gold-patterned carpet. My striped school tie was hanging down in front of my face. I could see under the chair and looked back at my own feet; my long knee socks needed pulling up. My short trousers had ridden up a little and were very tight across my buttocks and between my legs.

Granddad didn’t say a word, but I could feel him preparing himself by rolling up his shirt sleeve. At any moment he would start to spank me. I put the palm of my left hand into the carpet and placed the palm of my right hand across the back of my left hand. Whatever happened next, I reckoned, I would be able to hold myself in place.

I felt granddad grasp me around the waist. Now, he had me pinned down. He could do anything he wanted to me and all I could do was to lay there submissively with my face down and my bum high and take it.

I was wrong when I said it couldn’t hurt much. It could and it did.

Whack! Whack! Whack! three swats hit me across the middle of my bum; all more or less in the same place. I wanted to yelp, but I couldn’t. The shock knocked all the wind out of me and all I could do was wheeze. Huff-huff-huff.

Then three on the left cheek and three more on the right. I got my second wind and groaned aloud. I wasn’t yet ready to howl. That came later.

Three rapid swats: bang-bang-bang! Then another three. It sounded like machinegun fire. My legs wanted to flail around (they seemed to have a mind of their own; I was not in control). But, granddad had my calves firmly pinned. He had put me so far forward across his lap that I couldn’t reach my hands back to protect my poor bottom.

Another double dose of three swats. I could no longer keep my palms on the ground and I clenched both hands together, a bit like people do when they pray, and tried to ride out the pain.

It did not work.

I have no idea what a spanking should feel like, so I can’t say if granddad was laying into me, trying to take my arse off. Maybe he was; but maybe also this was a mild spanking with just enough hurt to let me know what could be in store if I ever misbehaved again.

He put six swats low down, just at the hem of my short trousers. At least two of them missed completely and smacked into my bare legs. That was when I howled and I howled. If the neighbours were at home next door they might have thought someone was being murdered here.

Then granddad stopped. He released his grip and I shot off his lap. I bent over double trying to get my breath back, while at the same time trying to rub the agony away from my throbbing backside. That rubbing thing doesn’t work, I can tell you.

My cheeks (the ones on my face, not my behind) were covered with tears and snot was dribbling from my nose, but slowly I was regaining some composure.

My poor bum felt like it had swollen to twice its proper size. I really wanted to rush to my bedroom and pull down my short trousers and pants to inspect the damage.

That would have to wait. Granddad still sat in his chair, the paddle in his hand. Who would have thought that such a small piece of wood could cause so much pain? He lectured me for what seemed like forever. I don’t remember a word of what he said.

But, I do remember how he finished. “Next time you go over my knee, you’ll have your trousers at your ankles.”

I got that. The pain of the paddle across my shorts and pants was intense. I never wanted to experience that ever again. To get it with only my cotton underpants to protect me would be unbearable.

Since that day I have done everything granddad has asked of me. I have yes-sirred and no-sirred him; even when I really wanted to tell him where to shove it. I have done my homework and gone to bed and got up on time. I do my chores around the house. I wear my short trousers; I do not go out the house: ever, except to go to school. I am granddad’s house slave.

And, I will do this for four more weeks until my mum and dad come back from Pakistan and rescue me. Please, granddad do not spank me with your paddle again.

As I was writing those words I realised something for the first time. That paddle must have been around for some time. I’m pretty certain granddad didn’t buy it specially to spank me. My own dad, Charles Hamilton Jr, must have had his bum blistered with it. And, knowing how strict granddad is; poor old dad probably got it more than once. Which means he got it on the pants; and what do you think, even on the bare?

Dad knows how brutal a paddling can be. Was that why he has never raised a finger to me? Was he sparing me the agony he had to endure as a boy? Weird thought, but if so, “Thank You Dad.”

I just heard the front door open. Granddad is home. I must stop this story here. I’m supposed to be doing my homework and if he finds out I’m not, my short trousers will soon enough be at my shoes.

Other stories you might like

When Dad got home

My first spanking — aged 18!

Rory and Alistair

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com