Untidy bathroom

Terry must have thought I was joking when I said I would spank his backside if he continued to leave the bathroom in a mess: because he did it again.

I was hurrying to get ready in the morning, the way you do, and had to step in puddles of water on the bathroom floor, the tub hadn’t been wiped and there was a squeezed toothpaste tube in the hand basin. I was livid. Terry knows I can’t stand it when he is slovenly like this and I have scolded him about it often enough.

Right, if that’s the way he wants to behave it’s time to take this to another level. I picked up the bath brush and went into the bedroom.

Terry was startled when I banged my way through the door brandishing the brush; he’s a smart lad, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

“What have I told you about leaving the bathroom in a state?” It wasn’t the kind of question that needed an answer, but I still wanted Terry to acknowledge his misbehaviour.

Instead, all I got was sullenness. No words, just a slump of the shoulders and a pout. He hadn’t flipped me the bird, but it meant the same thing.

That did it; no more warnings, it’s a spanking for you my lad.

I sat on the bed, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward me. “You’re never too old for this.”

With that I pulled him across my lap so that his head and chest rested on the bed, his bottom was over my knees and his legs stretched behind him. I moved my own right leg and pinned his feet so there was no escape.

Usually, I have a great deal of affection for Terry, but he had been getting on my nerves recently. Our relationship was changing; he was becoming defiant and he no longer wanted to accept me as an authority figure; in the kind of way that adolescents often did.

I took hold of the waist of his pyjama bottoms and slowly lowered them, exposing his buttocks for the severe spanking I intended to inflict.

This jerked him into action and he tried to struggle free, but with his legs restrained there was little he could do, but holler, “No daddy, please! No! Please, daddy!”

I looked down upon his quivering naked butt over my lap waiting for me to spank it. “You’ve had this coming for a long time Terence.” I always called him Terence when I was annoyed with him.

Then without further ado, I raised the brush high and whacked it into his left buttock and then the right. I kept up a steady rhythm, like the beating of a big bass drum. The outline of the brush was clearly imprinted in both buttocks after only three or four whacks.

He howled like a banshee and pummelled his fists into the bed. I had spanked him many times before and I knew he was acting up. “Stop squirming, it’s just a spanking.”

Then I hit my stride and now it really did hurt him. Each new swat felt like a flame searing his inner and outer buttocks, inner and outer thighs, and the sit-spots. It took me less than three minutes to break him. Terry’s wails and screams of protest threatened to lift off the roof but, almost machine like, I continued whacking every square inch of his buttocks.

I could see his eyes widen with shock, and his head jerked backwards, as the jolt of each swat radiated into his brain from the intensifying fire I was creating in his bottom.

He kept wriggling and pleading, but I held him tightly. He was going nowhere.

I was in complete control, I would teach the surly brat to obey me in future. I kept peppering his bare, and by now badly bruised, reddish-purple butt with the brush.

“I’m sorry, daddy. Really! Please stop, daddy, I’ll clean up the bathroom, honestly I will.”

He had no resistance left, he screamed and bawled, genuinely now, as he tried to thrash around on my leg to escape his punishment, but it was no use, of course.

He tried to reach back with his right arm, to cover his bottom, but I released my hold on his waist, and simply yanked his arm up into the middle of his back, lifting his pyjama jacket with it.

I am not a brute, my intention was to teach him a lesson and I had succeeded. I stopped spanking and put the brush on the bed beside me, but I wasn’t ready to set him free just yet.

As his crying began to subside to whimpers, I inspected his well-blistered buttocks and thighs; they were red, looked like raw hamburger and were bleeding a bit from dozens of little cuts where the brush bit really hard.

I lifted him up by his waist and stood me on his feet in front of me. “I spanked your bare bottom! I did it because I love you son and I need to teach you how to behave. And, I’ll spank you again if you deserve it, but nothing will ever change my love for you.”

He was jumping up and down in agony, I could see my spanking had left him very sore and he would have difficultly sitting down all day. He said nothing, but gave me a stare that exuded defiance. I could tell this would not be the last time I would have to take him across my knee.

Later in the car I could tell Terry’s butt was still terribly sore as he kept moving from one buttock cheek to the other to try to avoid sitting on a tender spot. He was sulking and not talking to me, but when I dropped him off at his office I knew that during the day he would calm down and that tonight he would find many exciting ways to tell me he still loved me.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The man across the hall

The party was jumping; the music blaring, the vodka flowing, the air was thick with dope. Kenny was staggering around holding on to his friends to stay upright. The night was a success and soon everyone would get laid.

Kenny’s parents were away on holiday and as the saying goes: while the cat’s away. He wasn’t allowed to use the family apartment for a party, but as that other saying goes: what the eyes don’t see.

Kenny was vaguely aware of a hammering on the door. He was too smashed to do anything about it, but one of the boys opened the front door to see what was up. It was Mr Posner, the old man from the apartment across the hall. He didn’t seem too happy. He was protesting about something.

“Hey Kenny! He wants you!”

Mr Posner wanted the music turned down. The guys were taking the piss, he was getting nowhere.

Kenny staggered over to the door.

“Turn the music down will you. Please.” Mr Posner was trying to stay polite.

“Oh f()ck off will you,” Kenny sneered and slammed the door in his face. “That will show him, the pathetic old man,” he laughed to his friends.

They partied until dawn and then it took another hour to get everyone out of the apartment. Eventually, Kenny crashed into bed.

When he awoke, the apartment was empty and he was left alone to clear up the mess. Mum and dad were due back tomorrow and he had to make sure they never got to know about the party.

He was busy clearing up the debris and vacuuming the carpets when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Unsuspectingly, he opened it. “Oh!” It was Mr Posner. Kenny flushed, he couldn’t remember much about last night, but he had a vague image of the old man complaining.

“I don’t suppose your parents are at home?” Mr Posner knew the answer, but couldn’t think of an opening gambit. He was very friendly with Kenny’s parents and knew they were away on holiday; he also knew the problems they were having with Kenny.

Without being asked, he walked past Kenny into the apartment. “Good, you’re cleaning up the mess, that’s something at least.”

Kenny was irritated with the man and didn’t mind letting him know in the tone of his voice, “What do you want?”

“Don’t take that tone with me young man. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Trouble? What was he talking about?

“How much do you remember about last night?” It was a question with threatening undertones.

Kenny mumbled something about being “Sorry.”

But, Mr Posner wasn’t letting him off lightly. He wanted his pound of flesh from the boy, and if he got his way it was going to be a pound of flesh from his backside.

His neighbour knew much more about Kenny than the boy could ever imagine. He had the brat over a barrel and very soon he intended to have him over the back of his couch as well.

Mr Posner knew Kenny wasn’t getting on with his parents. He had been at university for two years now and things weren’t going well. He spent too much time partying, drunk or high on drugs. His studies were suffering and he might end up failing his degree. His dad had just about had enough and told him if he didn’t straighten himself out (he meant stay sober for a while and do some studying) he should move out permanently and leave his parents in peace. That would be a disaster for Kenny, there was no way he could afford to live away from home: he really had to keep on their good side.

The old man was calm and calculated as he tore into Kenny. The noise, the booze, the drugs, the sex and most of all his disgusting language were among the highlights that he would be recounting to his parents at the weekend. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew and Kenny knew, that would be the end for him. His father would certainly say: when you return to university don’t come back.

Kenny was silent; there was nothing he could say. Everything Mr Posner said about him was true, but he didn’t feel remorse. He really didn’t care that he had upset the old man with his noise or that he swore at him. He just didn’t care. But, he did care that he would be thrown out of his parents’ home because of it.

Perhaps he could make a deal with the old man for his silence; but what? He had no money so he couldn’t offer a bribe, besides he was the kind of old sod that wouldn’t take a king’s ransom if it were offered. He probably wanted revenge; the vengeful old git.

How right Kenny was; but not in the way he thought.

Mr Posner had devised a plan. He would get his revenge and he would make Kenny suffer, but he would allow the boy to keep a roof over his head.

Still very calm and deliberate, Mr Posner said, “What you need is a damn good thrashing.”

He left the sentence dangling in the air. There was silence. Kenny had heard correctly, but that didn’t stop him saying crossly, “Do what?”

“I said you deserve a damn good thrashing and that is what you are going to get.”

Kenny’s face went deathly pale as he tried to comprehend the new information. He wants to “thrash” me. What does that mean? He wants to tie me to a tree and whip me until the skin peels off my back?

“A damn good caning.”

Kenny was still struggling to find a way to respond. He wanted to cane him, what like a schoolboy or something? Did they still have canes? Weren’t they abolished years ago?

Corporal punishment was unknown to Kenny; the schools didn’t use it and certainly it would never have occurred to his mum or dad to spank his backside when he misbehaved. A caning? This was unchartered territory for him.

Still calm, Mr Posner said, “I will give you a choice, either take a thrashing from me or I will report your behaviour to your parents.”

This stark choice woke the boy up. He summed up his situation in an instant: he had no choice. With no conviction, he said, “No way. You must be crazy.”

Mr Posner knew he was going to win this argument: he had the whip hand, so to speak.

“There will be no negotiation. Consent to your punishment and we will go across to my apartment.”

Kenny’s head whirled; how could he let this old man beat his arse? But, then again, in the circumstances, how could he not? Could he stand a thrashing? What would it be like; how many strokes would he get? God Almighty, why was he thinking like this?

Mr Posner turned his back, opened the front door and said over his shoulder, “Come with me now to my apartment.”

For Kenny, it was like an out-of-body experience. He didn’t seem to be in control, he could see himself meekly following Mr Posner across the hallway and into his own apartment.

He was led into the living room and what he saw there brought him down to Earth with a bump. There on the table was a long, thin cane. Kenny stared at it for some moments; he had never seen one before; it must have been longer than three feet and curved at the top.

Mr Posner could see the boy was fascinated. “Never seen a rattan cane before boy?”

“No,” he gulped.

“Well I shall be glad to introduce it to you.” He picked up the cane and effortlessly bent it between his two hands until it formed a perfect arc, then he swished it menacingly through the air and brought it crashing down with an almighty Whack! across the back of the leather couch.

What a satisfying sound it made, he thought and in a very few moments it will be coming down across the buttocks of this vile brat.

Kenny jumped as the cane thwacked into the leather. He considered running for his life and was just about to when the reality kicked in. There was nowhere to go; he had to stay here and let this man have his wicked way: the pervert.

Mr Posner swished the cane a few more times. “I used this on my two sons and they grew up into fine disciplined adults. What a pity your father didn’t do the same with you.”

Kenny was breathing heavily and he could feel sweat forming under his armpits; even though it was quite cool in the room.

Mr Posner could see the cane was intimidating Kenny, so he swished it some more.

“Are you ready?”

Ready? Ready for what exactly?

“Do you consent to be caned by me?”

Consent? What does the bastard mean?

“I need you to say that you agree to me punishing you.”

What the Hell?

“I have a paper here; I want you to sign it. It says that you agree that you have committed these crimes and that you consent to be beaten with a cane.”

Mr Posner had worked it out; it might not be a perfectly legal document, but if sometime in the future the boy wanted to cause trouble over it, he could always wave his piece of paper in his face.

This cannot be happening, Kenny thought. There is no way this is happening.

“Here,” Mr Posner handed him the document and a pen. His hands were shaking but Kenny managed to scrawl something, but it wasn’t really his signature.

“Come over here. Stand behind the couch,” Mr Posner guided him to a place two feet away from the couch. Kenny was shivering and tears were already forming behind his eyes.

Now, it would get tricky. Mr Posner wanted to beat the boy on his bare buttocks, but, in Kenny’s present state, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

Should he risk it? Damn it why not. Kenny was wearing football shorts with elastic around the waist; it shouldn’t be too difficult to organise.

“Bend over the back of the couch.” Kenny stood firm. “Kenny,” he spoke gently, ‘this has to happen. It will be better for you, if you are brave. Bend over, take your beating and it will be over. I promise I will not inform your parents.”

Kenny was openly crying now, the tears started slowly, but within seconds turned to floods.

“Now, be a good boy. Bend over.”

Humiliated and gulping back his sobs, Kenny lowered himself over. It was a large couch and he had no choice but to place the palms of his hands flat on the seat cushions to steady himself. In that position, his buttocks were perfectly presented to Mr Posner.

Kenny was breathing heavily as he awaited the first stroke of the cane. But, Mr Posner was not yet ready. With no word of warning he grabbed hold of Kenny’s shorts and tugged them to his thighs; his underpants fell with them.

Before, Kenny had time to protest, the cane rose and fell twice, slashing across the boy’s tight buttocks. He screamed and was about to jump up to clutch his burning bottom, when Mr Posner shoved him in the back and forced him to return over the couch.

“You will stay in position. If you get up before I give permission, I will give you two extra strokes each time you try. Is that clear?” Kenny was sobbing uncontrollably, so Mr Posner had to assume he had got the message.

Two deep welts had already formed when the old man lashed down another two cuts a quarter of an inch below. Kenny wailed and gripped the cushions hard. His knuckles were already white.

Two more slashes and Kenny was coughing saliva over the couch. His bum looked like raw hamburger. He had never in his life experienced such agony. His bottom throbbed like mad and so did his head. He couldn’t take any more of this, he was sure he was about to faint.

Slash! Slash! Arrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhh! The shriek could be heard in neighbouring apartments and Mr Posner was pleased it was the afternoon and his neighbours were at work. Surely, if they had been at home they would now be dialling the police to report a murder in process.

Kenny desperately tried to remain in position; his legs drummed away at the carpet and his fists pounded the seat cushions. Who would have known a caning could hurt so much, no wonder they banned it in schools.

Of course, as any experienced caner could see, Mr Posner was not administering a schoolboy’s six-of-the-best; this was the most vicious thrashing he had ever delivered. To have beaten his own sons this harshly would have been unthinkable. He caned them because he loved them; he was caning Kenny because he hated him.

Twice more the cane rose and fell, Kenny’s rear end thrashed about over the couch as he desperately tried to stay in position. Every fibre of his body willed him to get up and run from the apartment; he was literally a beaten man. If he could only turn back the clock to last night, he would never have used obscene language to the old man. No better, he would never have thrown the party.

Tears, snot and saliva rolled over the cushions; Kenny was gasping for breath, his blood pressure was so high his ears were popping. If he had to endure more intense pain he felt his heart might give out.

Slash! Slash! The final two were flogged into the buttocks with such force they even scared Mr Posner. He didn’t know he had such strength. Kenny let out a scream so loud it induced a coughing fit. Unable to control his breathing he flailed around, arms waving and legs kicking.

Mr Posner panicked and he pulled the boy to his feet, pushing his head between his legs. Slowly, his breathing slowed and became more regular, but the uncontrollable sobbing went on and on.

Kenny’s arse was red hot and covered in deep red welts and bruising had already formed on the outer edges of his buttocks, where the tip of the cane repeatedly fell. Kenny was running on the spot trying to make the agony go away. Attempts to rub at his buttocks only aggravated the pain, increasing it to searing torture.

Mr Posner had seen enough, he had completed his task; revenge was his. Now, he wanted the boy out of his home.

“Come on, pull yourself together!” he snapped. Slowly, agonisingly, Kenny tried to pull up his pants, but the kiss of the thin cotton briefs on his blistered buttocks only reignited the pain.

“Leave them,” Mr Posner commanded. “Take them with you. Go now.”

He took hold of the boy’s arm and guided him to the door, opened it and pushed Kenny, naked from the waist down, into the hallway. In the distance he heard the sound of the elevator whirring.

Petrified that someone would see him in his present state; Kenny pushed open the front door and fell into his apartment. He lay feverishly on the carpet, struggling to catch his breath; he thought he was having a seizure. Then he heard a key scraping into the lock of the door; followed by the sound of it opening. He turned his aching body to see his mother and father enter the apartment; they had decided to come back from holiday a day early.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The pub visit

It was six o’clock in the evening as Jim and his friends from work settled down for their second pint of beer in the pub.

He glanced at the clock behind the bar; it was getting dangerously late. If Jim wasn’t careful his father would arrive home first and discover the young man was not at home.

Although he was twenty years old, he still lived with his parents in the suburbs of a small industrial town. His father was a strict Methodist and never touched a drop of alcohol; many times he had warned Jim about the dangers of drink and the punishment he would receive if alcohol ever touched his lips.

Jim regularly disobeyed his father. His co-workers at the bank usually went to the pub after work for “a quick one” as they liked to call it. Most only did have one pint and that suited Jim just fine. He could have his beer and get home before his father returned from his own job.

But this night was different. Carol, a new cashier at the bank, joined the gang. Jim could not admit it, even to himself, but he had a mad crush on Carol. Her eyes, her smile, her smell, her physical bits: they were all capable of touching Jim’s buttons.

Not that Jim had any “buttons” to touch. His father’s strict religious views extended far from alcohol. Sex before marriage was a taboo and, reluctantly, at the age of twenty, Jim was still a virgin.

The hands of the clock edged to 6.30 and glasses were drained.

“Who’s for another?” Jim’s friend Bill asked.

“Not me,” Carol reached for her bag, “I’ve got to go.” And, not expecting anyone to argue, she swept out of the pub, hurrying home to her boyfriend.

Jim was crestfallen; he was so shy around women he hadn’t even had the chance to strike up a conversation. With Carol gone there was no point in staying. If he were lucky, he might still get home before his father. If he failed, his father would find out about his drinking and his disobedience and there could be only one consequence.

Jim’s days dragged endlessly at the bank, where his job was inputting data into a computer. There was always plenty of time to think about other things. Often, he day-dreamed about quitting his job, leaving home, travelling to the city and starting a life on his own with new friends who knew how to enjoy themselves.

But, it was always only that: a day-dream. Jim was stuck in a rut. His job paid badly so he could not afford to move out of his parents’ house. Even if he went, he had no friends away from the tiny miserable little town where he lived, and would probably find it hard to make new ones. Worse of all, Jim knew, he was a coward: he did not have the courage to strike out on his own.

The truth was he had to carry on his life as always: following his father’s rules.

His father smelled the ale on his breath the moment his son arrived home.

“Have you been drinking?” it was a statement rather than a question.

Jim would not deny the obvious. “Yes father, sorry father. I’m sorry father, it won’t happen again.” He desperately wanted his father to know he felt remorse. He was ashamed of his actions. It really would not happen again.

His father’s face went puce. “Go to your room. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. We shall discuss this later.” Jim knew that was the end of the matter for now. His father always got the last word.

He also knew that there would be nothing to “discuss” later that day. His father had already decided on his course of action.

Jim obediently trotted up the stairs, leaving his father to stride into the living room in search of his Bible. In his room he had hardly removed his tie when: “Jim!” It was the call from his father he had dreaded.

He opened his bedroom door and shouted back, “In a moment father I’m changing.”

“Good. Change into your pyjamas and get down here immediately.”

Pyjamas? His father would not even give him the protection of his jeans. He must be in a fury.

“Hurry up!”

Jim was scared by the impatience of his father’s tone. Quickly, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into his pyjamas. He knew better than to keep his father waiting when he was angry: he didn’t want extra stokes.

Jim was still tying the drawstring to his pyjama bottoms as he reached the bottom step of the stairs and heard his father call, “Come to the living room.” He obeyed and found his father, dressed in black, like a funeral director, standing near the middle of the room with a new cane in his hand.

Jim had never seen this cane before. His father already had quite a collection, but had he been out to purchase a new rod of correction? It looked fearsome. Perhaps it was the way his father was slashing the cane through the air with malicious intent. He swished it a few times before slamming it down on the sofa next to the phone. It made a wicked and frightening crack as it made impact.

His father was a man of few words. There was nothing to talk about now. Jim had disobeyed his father and the word of God. There was only one course of action. His father swished the cane one more time before pronouncing, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

It was the command Jim had been expecting with dread and he obeyed without protest, as if he were on auto-pilot.

He was a grown adult of twenty, being treated like a ten year old. He didn’t know of any other man his age that had to submit himself to such humiliations. Surely most people would think it absurd that his father was about to cane him.

But, it didn’t matter what other people thought. His father’s word was law in his own house and Jim accepted that.

His father read Jim’s thoughts. “If you didn’t disobey me then you wouldn’t find yourself in this position young man.”

Jim knew that when his father commanded “touch toes” he meant exactly that: do not grasp the knees or the shins, toes meant toes.

Jim was a supple young man, but even for him to touch toes was a struggle. He leaned forward from the waist, spread his legs wide, kept his knees straight and with the tips of his fingers managed to reach his toes. He could feel the pyjama bottoms tightening across his backside, presenting a magnificent target for his father.

Perspiration formed under his pyjama jacket and soon a rivulet of sweat would be running down his back. His breathing was even but he knew once the first cut slashed into his stretched bottom his heart rate would soar and he would have to gasp for breath.

His father continued his own preparations, lifting Jim’s jacket away from his backside to expose his hairless back. Then, by tugging at the waistband of the pyjama bottoms, he smoothed the cotton tight across Jim’s buttocks. He never beat his son on the bare buttocks; the pyjama bottoms or underpants preserved the necessary degree of modesty.

He tapped Jim’s clenched buttocks with the tip of the cane, and the young man took a deep breath. Those damn taps with the cane: he almost feared them more than the strokes themselves. They were always so excruciatingly nerve-wracking. He never knew if the tap would immediately be followed by the swish, then the crack, then the searing stripe, or if it was just one of many slight taps while he measured his distance, readied himself, took aim.

The way to survive a caning, Jim believed, was to think about something else. He concentrated on his bare feet; they were really quite ugly, both of his little toes were deformed, probably caused by wearing ill-fitting shoes as a young boy.

His toe nails definitely needed cutting. He was wondering where the clippers might be, when a searing pain flashed across his buttocks. Father was showing no mercy.

No matter how much Jim wanted to think about something else, by the time the third cane stroke slashed into his taut buttocks, the agony was all-consuming. Pain shot from his cheeks through his thighs and down to his knees. His bum felt like a red-hot wire had been pressed deeply into the flesh.

“I’m sorry father. I won’t do it again,” Jim meant it, but his father knew (as all fathers know) that a boy will make all kinds of promises if it he thinks it will stop the punishment early.

“I very much hope you are. But, you will be a lot sorrier by the time this is over,” he lashed another stroke into Jim’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas.

Jim’s jacket stuck to his back as sweat poured off the young man. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as his blood pressure flew off the top of the scale.

His legs were beginning to feel the strain of staying rigidly apart. His father tapped the cane across his bottom once more; then twice, and then there was a pause. A moment later the sound of the swish of the cane echoed around the room, followed almost instantly by another fierce burning pain as the whippy rod cut into Jim’s backside, making him cry out.

“I’m sorry, really, really sorry,” Jim’s sobs were almost uncontrollable. He really was sorry. He so wanted to please his father. He was a good man; he provided for his family and wanted his sons to follow in his footsteps. Jim wanted to be like his father, but deep down knew this was not possible. He had drifted away from the church and wanted a life full of energy and joy and his father could not provide this.

Three more whacks crashed into his bottom, so hard, so unbelievably hard, they made Jim yell. His father had never beaten him like this before. Welts had formed under Jim’s pyjamas and he was sure blood was seeping from his wounds.

He took eighteen strokes that night, each one delivered with force from a man who knew without a shadow of doubt that righteousness was on his side.

Jim’s buttocks were sliced to ribbons, the thin cotton pyjama bottoms were no protection. The cheeks could be not be any more brutalized if he had taken the whipping on the bare flesh.

He remained in position waiting for his father’s permission to stand. He just wanted to get up clutch at his burning bottom with both hands and rush to the bathroom to sit in a bath of cold water.

But, his father was not quite finished. While still staring at his ugly toes, Jim had to endure a sermon from his father. It took an age for him to read his chosen Bible passage. But it was wasted on Jim. All he could concentrate on was his throbbing buttocks and the welts he knew had formed under his thin PJs. When he was eventually allowed to inspect the damage he was certain he would find blood seeping from his weals.

At last, satisfied by his own smugness, his father commanded Jim to rise. The tears had stopped flowing, but his face was stained. He bowed his head in remorse as his father once more lectured him about his behaviour and the consequences of disobedience.

Jim desperately wanted to rub away at his blistered backside, but knew from experience this was not allowed by his father. Once, two years ago, after a caning, he had disobeyed his father and continued kneading his buttocks. In a heartbeat, he was dragged across the man’s knee for a couple of dozen hard slaps with his bedroom slipper. Jim remembered the agony of the slippering on top of the initial caning stayed with him for days, reigniting every time he sat down on a hard surface. Ever since Jim always waited until he was dismissed by his father before he began to take curative action.

Eventually, he was allowed to leave and in the privacy of his own room he gently rubbed antiseptic ointment into his ripped backside. Face down on his bed, his pyjama bottoms discarded on the floor; he recounted in his mind the events of that day.

He had been severely thrashed for disobeying his father and drinking in the pub. He deserved it, he knew. There had been many times in the recent past that he had been in the King’s Head and not been discovered. Yes, he was long overdue a caning.

He knew his father’s rules and he had deliberately broken them; he had no complaints. He vowed not to go to the pub ever again.

But, then as he softly caressed the cuts that criss-crossed his tender bottom, he saw in his imagination Carol sitting in the pub with her hair, her smell and most of all her pert breasts. Unbidden, his penis rose to attention. It ached even more than his poor backside. Maybe it would not be easy to avoid the pub tomorrow.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The fire-raiser

My dad only ever spanked me once, and I was eighteen years old when he did it.

And, you bet I deserved it.

Looking back at it now, I’m shocked at my own behaviour.

We lived in a small council flat in inner London and I could easily have burnt the place down and the whole block with it.

I can’t explain why I did it, it was just so stupid.

As a teenager, I used to like to lock myself in the bathroom. No, I know we all did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I used to take a stack of paper and a box of matches in and make a bonfire in the bath.

I would wait until I was the only one in the flat before I set the damn thing alight. All it needed was for a lick of flame to catch a curtain and the whole place would be on fire.

I was easily found out. The smell of burning paper would hang around for a long time and was still there hours after I put out my private blaze.

One day my dad asked me about it. I lied, of course, and dad let it go. He was a very weak man and I don’t suppose he was good at confrontation. So, I carried on burning. A few weeks passed and he quizzed me after he once again caught the tell-tale whiff of smoked paper.

I didn’t lie this time, but I made an excuse. I said I had been doing a chemistry experiment in the bathroom and paper caught fire by accident. I don’t know if he really believed me, but once again he didn’t argue with me.

It was about two weeks after that I ended up over his knee with a bedroom slipper slapping into my upturned bum.

Yes, I had another bonfire and again, even though I opened the windows to let out the smoke, I was caught out by the incriminating smell.

This time, dad had decided he would take action. He confronted me with the accusation I was a fire bug and I had no choice but to admit it.

I suppose he had made a plan of action in advance. He gave me a little lecture about the dangers of fire. I didn’t take much notice of him. Looking back I realise I’d always despised him. He was a factory worker of the lowest grade possible and had been for twenty years and always would be. Even at the age of eighteen, when I was still studying for my A-levels, I knew I was going to leave him a long way behind. And, the sooner I did that, the better, as far as I was concerned.

What happened next surprised me. We had been talking in the kitchen when he said we should go next door to the living room. I hesitated and found he had gripped my arm quite tightly and was pushing me out the door.

My heart was thumping. I had no idea what was going on. Despite my arrogance towards my father, I was quite a shy, timid kid.

He pulled me into the next room. Our flat was tiny and there wasn’t much in the living room: a beat-up three piece suite, dining room table and chairs, a sideboard by the window and a TV set.

He pulled one of the dining room chairs into the middle of the carpet. Before, I could fathom what was going on; he reached towards the fireplace and picked up one of his slippers.

Then I knew. I suppose I could have just told him to stuff it and walk out the door, but, as I say, I was a bit timid. Like father, like son, I suppose. I was also a couple of inches taller than him and he was running to fat, even then, so he wouldn’t have been able to force me across his knee.

He sat down in the chair, holding his bedroom slipper in his right hand.

I stood looking at him. The pathetic man, I thought.

My heart hadn’t stopped racing since our confrontation in the kitchen, but I was also now finding it difficult to catch my breath. Something strange was going on inside of me: a part of me really wanted dad to spank me. God knows, I deserved it.

Without saying a word, he reached out and took me by my left arm and hauled me across his knees. To my utter surprise I didn’t struggle. I could easily have forced my way to my feet and left the room. Instead, I adjusted myself across his knees, until I was in position with my arms out in front of me, palms down on the carpet. My torso rested comfortably across his lap and I kept my knees straight so my legs were an inch or so off the floor at the back.

Dad took hold of me around the middle of my body to make sure I wasn’t going to fall off as he went about spanking my bottom.

I was wearing two-toned Sta-Press trousers – very fashionable at the time – which had an adjustable waist so you needn’t wear a belt. There were no back pockets, so dad had a fine view of my bum and would have seen I was wearing but the briefest of underpants, which left a lot of my buttock cheeks uncovered. Clearly, the trend setters of fashion at the time had no expectation that people wearing their clothes might need protection from their dad’s slipper.

I lay across dad’s knee, waiting for the first slap. There was quite a pause – was he having second thoughts? – before Whack!! Down it came. I gasped a little. Then came another slap and another.

My bum was warming up, but I wasn’t in any great pain. Nonetheless, I wriggled across his lap: was it just a reflex action against the assault on my bottom?

The next whacks were harder and I grimaced and screwed up my face up in quite some discomfort.

But, the pain, such as it was, was bearable.

I’m not sure how many smacks with the slipper he gave me: but it was probably no more than a dozen.

He let me up and I stood in front of him, not quite knowing what I was supposed to do next. My face was bright red from being upside down, but I doubt if my bum was more than a shade of pink.

My bottom was hot, but it wasn’t particularly sore and certainly not throbbing. I don’t think I even felt the need to rub it.

“Go upstairs,” dad said. And, that was it: my first and only spanking.

I went to my bedroom and in time-honoured fashion I stood in front of the mirror, took down my trousers and pants and inspected the damage. Truthfully, there was nothing much to show for it.

I lay on my bed for a while reliving the past ten minutes. I couldn’t believe that I had been taken across my dad’s knee and given a dose of the slipper. As I recalled each moment of the spanking, from being scolded in the kitchen, dragged into the living room, forced down over his knees and then walloped with the slipper, I felt an unfamiliar stirring within me.

I closed my eyes tight to try to visualise what I must have looked like draped over dad’s knee, the slipper rising and falling and smacking into the seat of my trousers.

The vision in my mind’s eye stirred my cock a little and I realised it was turning me on. My hand went down to touch it, but it wasn’t quite getting hard. I wasn’t aroused enough.

How typical of my dad – he couldn’t even spank me properly.

Tugging at my todger, I let my imagination take over and re-ran my spanking as it should have been.

We are in the living room. Dad has lectured me and I know I am to get the spanking of my life: and I deserve every whack of it.

Dad pulls the chair out from behind the table, puts it in the centre of the room and sits down. In his hand is a bedroom slipper. I am shaking my head and babbling on about “never doing it again.” But, like millions of naughty children before in the same situation, it does no good. I am going across dad’s knee.

Dad points to a spot to the right of where he is sitting. “Stand there,” he orders, and I do as I am told.

“Take down your trousers.”

Slowly and carefully, I undo the button, slide down the zip, and push the trousers down until they drop of their own accord to my ankles. My yellow shirt covers all but the lowest inch of my honeycombed-coloured pants.

I blush, my face going cherry red, standing in front of dad with just my thin pants covering my bottom.

“Bend over my knee.”

Leaning down, momentarily I place a hand on dad’s thigh to steady myself, and then lower myself across his lap, reaching down for the carpet beyond.

I let him position me across his lap. My arm is taken and folded up my back, securing me and preventing any possible escape.

My shirt is neatly folded up, exposing my lower back to the cool air of the room.

Then dad takes hold of the top of my pants. I panic. He’s going to bare my arse.

Then, I am lying across dad’s knee, bottom bare. I breathe in sharply. Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I cry. After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper, I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings.

With just two or three seconds between each smack of the slipper, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time the slipper contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy-white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Dad’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my naked bottom time and time again. My bottom is really very sore now, and my arm hurts where I have been struggling and dad has restrained me.

I am howling and kicking like a child, begging dad to stop hurting me. Dad takes no notice: he is the master of me and he is giving me the sound spanking I so thoroughly deserve.

As the spanking continues, I realize with shock that my ass is on fire. It burns with a pain that bewilders me. Every fresh smack of the slipper tears a gasp from me, and I am crying; in fact, I’ve been crying for some time.

Yes, tears are flowing down my eighteen-year-old face, and nothing I can do will stop them flowing. My body lies flopped across dad’s lap and I just sob and sob as he pounds away.

Then it is over. With contempt dad rolls me off his lap and I fall to the floor, weeping buckets of tears. I stumble to my feet, disorientated. I am not sure where I am.

My face is red and hot. My hands go to try to sooth my burning bottom.

I have spent the last ten minutes or so draped across dad’s knee with my trousers around my ankles and underpants around my knees. Dad has given my bottom and the top of my legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of my rear end has avoided his attention. My bum is aglow.

It has been a long, humiliating and very painful bare bottom spanking.

Now, dad is warning me that if I ever start another fire he will take a cane to my bare backside, young adult or not!

“Get up to your room,” he orders. I thank him before leaving the living room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Yes, that’s the way to give a proper spanking.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Never too old

“Stand up straight boy.”

“Take your hands out of your pocket.”

“Take that look off your face.”

I wasn’t used to this. Usually, when a boy stood on the carpet facing my desk, he was contrite. “Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full sir.”

But, not this boy Rawlinson; he was as cocky as they come. He needed taking down a peg or two. And, I knew the best way to do that: a flogging with my cane.

Reluctantly, he stood straight. At first he held his arms limply at his sides and then, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with them, he clasped them behind his back.

He was an older lad. He was dressed in a shiny red blazer, long charcoal-grey trousers, with an immaculate crease down each leg, a grey shirt and tightly knotted red and silver striped tie. He resembled just about any of the schoolboys who had ever stood in my study to receive a lecture as a prelude to a thorough thrashing from me.

“You were seen drinking beer in the Goat’s Head. What have you to say for yourself?”

The Goat’s Head was a pub in town, frequented by under-aged drinkers. One of my colleagues had spied Rawlinson in the bar last evening.

There wasn’t actually a school rule that said pupils could not go into pubs, but I think you would agree with me that we can take it as read that they should not do so.

“Well boy?”

I swear he snorted his reply. “No I wasn’t.”

My blood pressure rose slightly.

“How dare you argue with me boy! You were seen.”

He stared straight at me. “I wasn’t there.”

This was outrageous! I don’t think I had ever in my entire career encountered such insolence from a boy.

“Don’t lie to me boy. You were seen by one of the masters.”

“Who was it? Which one?” he snapped back at me.

I struggled to retain my temper.

“I do not intend to bandy words with you about this matter. Accept that you were caught red-handed and take your punishment.”

“No. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.” There was not a trace of fear or contrition in his voice. Usually, by now a boy would be close to tears, confessing all and begging for mercy.

“You were there.” I thought I might be sounding a little foolish. We were beginning to behave like two squabbling children. “You did. I didn’t.”

I was sure how to conclude this. It was my intention to beat him black and blue with my heaviest cane.

But he was not yet ready to submit.

“Let there be an end to this!” I roared as I reached over to a wicker basket containing an array of swishy canes. I selected the heaviest and turned to face Rawlinson. It was a crook-handled senior cane that I used on the older boys when I wished to ensure that the message was clearly understood. This particular model had more spring than flexibility and this meant a significant degree of bite.

Still there was no look of fear in his eyes. He did not even pretend to be nervous or scared.

I swished the cane a few times so he could see I meant business. His eyes followed, fascinated by the arc of the cane as it moved through the air.

“I am going to beat you and I am going to beat you severely. Not only have you been drinking in the pub, you have shown no remorse. Further, you have shown disrespect to your headmaster. I shall give you twelve strokes for each of those offences.

Rawlinson looked at me unabashed. Did I feel more anxious than he? I had never delivered thirty-six strokes at the one time before. Surely his backside would be a mess by the time I laid down my cane.

“But, Sir. I’m too old to be caned, Sir.”

Too old? Good God, they were never too old to be caned.

“Stop that nonsense at once, Rawlinson. You will take a beating, or I will arrange for you to be expelled from this school. What is it to be?”

I swear he smirked. I was dumbfounded, now. I had never been treated with so much disrespect by a boy.

“Hang your blazer on the door boy and stand in front of the desk.

Without hesitation he did as he was told. He faced my desk, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Rawlinson, bend over the desk.”

Rather eagerly, I thought, he stretched his arms out and dived across the desk. He wriggled into position, his stomach flat on the desk and his arms folded in front of him.

His bottom was raised slightly on the near edge of the desk. I moved forward and grabbing the tail end of his scarlet jersey I pulled the garment up his back. He now offered a superb target, his trousers stretched across his plump buttocks.

“I want you to count as each stroke is delivered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” delivered in a clear, strong voice.

“Spread your legs wider.”

He did so without fuss.

My first stroke was a beauty. It landed dead centre and fully covered both buttocks.

“One sir, thank you, sir,” he responded without hesitation. Other than that there was no reaction to the searing pain that must at that moment have been travelling from his buttocks all through his body.

And, this was repeated three more times. I was caning hard and he was taking it like a man. I could see clear deep lines had formed across the trouser seat where the cane had struck home. Again, he counted in a clear, resolute voice.

I don’t think I have ever caned a boy as hard as I did Rawlinson that afternoon. All twelve cuts were superb stingers, delivered with all the power I could muster. Any other boy would have been howling with the pain and dancing over the desktop. I shouldn’t be surprised if they begged for mercy.

But not Rawlinson. I knew he must be in agony. How could he not be after a thrashing like that? His buttocks must be throbbing like mad.

“Stand up Rawlinson. Those twelve strokes were for being in the pub. The next twelve are for not showing remorse. Take down your trousers and bend back over the desk.”

The trousers were down in a jiffy, revealing that he was wearing tight white briefs. I suspected they were a size or two too small for him. This was confirmed when he went back over the desk. I could see a set of welts had formed under the pants. My thrashing had indeed hit the mark so to speak.

“Twelve more Rawlinson. You know the rules. Count after each stroke.”

Again, I laid twelve humdingers into his backside. He counted them off without faltering once. I could see that under the tight cotton some of the welts were beginning to seep blood.

“Stand up Rawlinson.” He sprang to his feet.

“Now for showing disrespect to me, twelve on the bare. Take your pants down.”

He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them tumbling to his knees. He parted his knees slightly and they fell all the way to his feet.

“Back over the desk.”

I had a perfect view of his by now scarified buttocks. There was some blood, but they there were not, as yet, open wounds. But, soon there would be. I didn’t mind about this at all. I had my job to do.

I lashed into him twelve more times. Not once did he cry out. His body stayed in place hardly moving during the entire thrashing, but as the final six cuts whooshed into his already raw flesh he let out an almost silent cough as each one slashed into him.

It was over. I looked down at the boy prostrated across my desk. He appeared to be breathing evenly, unperturbed by the whipping I had delivered to him. I think maybe it had been more of a physical ordeal for me than for him. I had put my all into the 36 strokes. I was the one breathing heavily.

“Get up boy.” He did so and stood before me. He at least had the good grace to shuffle his feet a little, as if to admit that, yes, he was in some pain.

“Get dressed.”

He pulled up his pants and trousers and buckled his belt, as if he did not have a care in the world.

“You are dismissed.”

Jauntily, he grabbed his blazer from the hook, turned the handle on the door, and was gone.

Five minutes later, more composed myself, I exited my study. Crossing the hall, I knocked on the door of the room opposite.

“Yeah, come in.”

I found Rawlinson, trousers and pants at his knees, admiring my handiwork in a mirror.

“So, how was it?” I asked.

“Brilliant. Fantastic. Wonderful,” he replied a broad smile across his face.

“So, what now?” I inquired.

“Let me put my short trousers on. Then you can take me across your knee and spank me as hard as you like.”

“Okay. I’ll go back to the study. You come along when you’re ready.”

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Murph in the headmaster’s study

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A St Francis Independent Grammar School Story. For more click here

Murph was bent over the desk, awaiting his fate. He had been told to grip the far edge of the desk, so he was stretched across it. His school blazer, shirt and white vest had ridden up his back. His grey school trousers and white Y-fronts were down at his ankles.

Getting into position meant bending over and presenting his bared backside for a caning even though he was a grown-up young man of eighteen.

In front of him, Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, was rummaging through his punishment cabinet intent on finding just the right stick to take the bully’s arse off.

Eventually he took hold of the Malacca, a fearsome specimen. .It was no longer or thicker than the rattans among his vast collection; but it was denser. And every three or four inches along its length were notches which, the headmaster knew from the rod’s satisfactory use in the past, would raise serious wounds on a boy’s buttocks. A deep red welt would raise immediately the Malacca connected with flesh, then within minutes deep purple bruises would cover the entire area of the globes. The marks would stay for days, more than a week sometimes, and the boy on the receiving end of such a thrashing would find it painful to sit for many hours. Some areas of the buttocks would remain tender to the touch for days.

Yes, Dr Henderson-Smith was convinced this was the cane to deal with young Murphy.

Mick Murphy, naturally known across the school as ‘Murph,’ was from the town’s growing Irish stock. He was typical of the breed; his head was oblong shaped and his face looked like a potato. His body was built like a navvy’s and covered in hair. The good doctor had never before seen such hairy buttocks on a teenager.

Murph shuddered in anticipation of the ordeal to come as the headmaster moved into position behind him, and swished the cane menacingly through the air, adding considerably to the young man’s trepidation.

Dr Henderson-Smith had no sympathy with the boy now prone across his leather-topped desk. He was a bully and an extortionist. For many months the lout had been terrorising junior boys and taking their lunch money. Murphy’s was a simple plan. At St Francis Independent Grammar School the prefects were not allowed to punish the younger boys outright; instead they distributed punishment slips for breaches of good behaviour. If a boy collected three such slips it meant an automatic caning from his housemaster.

Murphy dished out the slips as if they were confetti; but he would ‘let a boy off’ if he coughed up his lunch money; which they always would do. The cash kept Murphy in smokes and paid for the ‘girlie’ magazines that were easily available from certain newsagents in town.

It went on for months: perhaps the only question to ask is why he did not get caught sooner. It was only by chance that Mr Tooke, a junior master, looking through the chemistry lab window saw the brute attack the tiny eleven-year-old boy. Albright rolled in a ball on the ground to protect himself from the flailing legs of his attacker.

That was how Murphy found himself knocking on the heavy oak door of the headmaster’s study.

‘Enter!’

Murph gulped and entered the study closing the door behind him, the desk in front of him was clear. The headmaster was a bit of a drama queen. Calmly, he told Murph that his behaviour was unacceptable.

“You’re going to be sound-er-ly th-rashed, my boy, and that means a prop-er can-ing,” he rolled every syllable around his tongue, fondly believing this would drive terror into any misbehaving teenager’s heart.

“Move over to my desk, drop your trousers and underpants and spread yourself across it, gripping the sides. This will hurt and is intended to.”

Murph had expected this. Although he had never been sent to the headmaster’s study before, he had heard tales from other boys who had. His friend Mitchell had been caned last week; he said it hurt something awful. Felt like a red hot poker against his skin.

In a trance, Murph unbuckled his belt, unfastened his trousers, pulled the zip and let them slide off his hips and down his thighs. As he did as he was told he dreaded what was to come next.

“Underpants too, boy!” It was a sharp command. The headmaster was not about to have his time wasted by this sixth-former.

Still Murph hesitated; he really did not want to expose his bare flesh to the headmaster.

“Please don’t make me come over there and take them down for you!” Dr Henderson-Smith would have too. He found that many of his pupils were far from stoical when the time came for a caning. In generations past it was a matter of honour for a schoolboy to present himself gallantly for a beating, but many modern boys lacked the courage to do this.

With shaking hands and scarlet face, Murph stuck his thumbs under the waistband of his underpants and dragged them to his knees, displaying his genitals. Quickly, he cupped them in his hands to hide them from the headmaster’s view.

“Stupid boy! I am not the least bit interested in your private parts,” the headmaster thought, but did not say aloud. It was another part of the boy’s anatomy that interested the good doctor.

He tapped the wooden desk with his finger. “Bend over.”

Murph bent right over it, clutching the far edge and offering his huge haunches most submissively for what was to be a thrashing of a lifetime.

There was no ceremony with the headmaster. He had a job to do; no a duty to perform and he got on with it.

The boy felt the cane rest on his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he felt was the cane land on his bare backside and an intense line of fire erupted across his buttocks. This was Murph’s first bare-bottomed caning and the eighteen-year-old screamed. He had never felt anything quite like it. He was hot all over, but his bottom was definitely hotter still and rapidly overheating.

It might have been fairer not to give such a vicious first stroke, but the headmaster was in no mood to show any leniency, and had delivered it with every ounce of effort at his disposal. A scratch about six inches long formed across the boy’s buttocks.

After a slight pause, a second stroke landed a little below where the first had marked him, turning the scratch into a deep cut. Blood began to form along the line of the cut. Murph was astonished by the severity and intensity of the stripe. He felt flushed and humiliated to be fully dressed on his top half, but naked from the waist down. Cold perspiration ran down his back.

“Please Sir!” Murph wailed. “Please Sir, I’m sorry!”

“Silence boy!” thundered the headmaster and cracked the cane down again. Strokes three onwards landed on the bare flesh, hurting, if possible, even more than the first one. By the fourth stroke, snot and tears were cascading down Murph’s huge face. The headmaster did not decrease his punishment one bit and was well satisfied with the boy sobbing on the desk in front of him.

The sixth stroke slashing across the base of Murph’s bottom, where it joins the thighs, was the final straw, causing him to yell out and bawl loudly. His legs danced and thrashed about. He had never been in such pain, nor imagined that such pain was possible to survive.

With Murph still across the desk, the headmaster gave him a final warning about his behaviour before giving him permission to get dressed. As the teenager was dressing Dr Henderson-Smith replaced the cane in the cabinet and sat down before opening the punishment book. He wrote Murph’s name, the nature of the offence and details of the punishment inflicted. He noted with some satisfaction that this was the fifteenth entry in the book that month and it was still only the second week.

When instructed by the headmaster, Murph slowly pushed himself back on his elbows as he got unsteadily up. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk for a couple of moments before he got his balance.

Murph slowly pulled his underwear back up over his buttocks, unable to resist gently probing the damage with his fingers as he did so. He could feel the painful ridges that would be visible for quite some time to come. Finally he got his school trousers up and fastened, then stood, hands clenched at his side, in front of the headmaster, his hands gently massaging his throbbing backside and his eyes wet with tears. He signed his name in the punishment book with the lecture from the headmaster on his future behaviour and a warning that it would be worse if he ever came before him again on a similar offence, ringing in his ears.

Murph was dismissed and slowly he limped from the study his hands rubbing his buttocks and his eyes still moist with tears.

 

Other school stories you might like.

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

The headmaster and Hutchins

The Gafffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What a disappointment!

No sixth-former had ever been caned at my school, so I made history that day.

Actually, hardly anyone had been caned in living memory – it was a “progressive” school and I had thought corporal punishment had been abolished a long time ago.

But, as I was to find out it had only fallen into disuse and that day it was making a comeback.

And, I welcomed its return, thank you very much, Sir.

I was eighteen years old and for a long as I could remember I had had a thing about corporal punishment. I used to fantasize about what it would be like to go over someone’s knee for the slipper or be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best with the cane.

And, now my fantasy was to come true: or so I hoped.

It was all rather unexpected. I was in no way a bad lad, a rebellious teen, or a troublemaker. In fact I was such a goody-goody I was a prefect at the school and tipped to go on to university.

I had fallen foul of one of the school’s most fearsome battle-axes: Miss Lowenstein. She really was an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’d ever be likely to meet, with buck teeth and a gammy leg, courtesy of a childhood bout of polio.

She was, of course, a spinster and we boys all thought she was sex starved (as if we weren’t). And, she was a tough disciplinarian. She called herself a “martinet” and woe betides anyone who did not call her “ma’am”. No way were we allowed to call her “miss”, like we did all the other women teachers.

She had a mean streak and that’s how it was that I was about to break the record and take a caning.

We had a school magazine, it wasn’t a posh one, professionally published, but just something we cobbled together on an old Roneo printer. It was mostly short stories and poems (well doggerel verse really). It was my prowess as a poet that got me in trouble. I’d penned a verse that did not name her, but everyone knew who I meant. Somewhere in there it called her a “crow” and that she did not like.

So, before I knew it she was onto Mr Henderson, the head of Upper School, whining on that something must be done. And, the only “something” that would satisfy the bat was me bent over getting a sore arse.

When I realised I was for it I was not the least worried. I had dreamt about this for so long. I was fascinated by school canings and read lots of stories and comics that involved schoolboys getting their backsides tanned.

My favourite stories took place in public schools which were a world away from the inner city comprehensive I attended. In England “public” schools are expensive private schools, often where pupils boarded. What they all had in common was the thwack of the cane across the seat of the trousers that rewarded boys who misbehaved.

At home I used to pretend I was one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the school stories had it. Often I would dress up in my school uniform and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the passageway of our council flat. I would bend over touching my toes admiring the reflection of my bum in the mirror.

I never did anything about my spanking fantasy. I was young and we were all very naïve in those days. We didn’t have Internet then, so I wasn’t to know that there were plenty of people out there who shared my interest. Let’s face it there would have been plenty of people ready to cane an eighteen-year-old schoolboy’s backside raw (and much else besides) if they knew he was ready and willing.

I had one friend who looking back I think might have shared my interest. We were too young to express to each other our true feelings and the closest we got to doing anything was one day, while playing in his house, we found some sticks and had a go at sword-fighting. I can’t remember how it happened, but we moved on from medieval knights or whatever to naughty boys.

To this day, I remember he was willing to get a whacking from me. He bent over the back of the couch. We were both children so he couldn’t quite stretch all the way over. But, I do remember his chubby buttocks stretching against his corduroy trousers. He made a perfect target and if I hadn’t been so shy, I would have (no, should have) swished the stick into his arse.

But I chickened out. Why? I don’t know. But even now nearly fifty years after the event I still have pangs of regret.

So, I wasn’t about to give up the chance of a proper headmaster’s caning from Mr Henderson.

I went to a pretty ordinary school and we had no airs and graces: my school uniform was a very standard black blazer with grey trousers.

My uniform was ordinary and if truth be told I was pretty ordinary too: about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned, not like the obese teenagers you see today.

At the appointed time I went to the concrete and glass Admin Block and knocked on the door of Mr Henderson’s office. My heart was thumping as if I had run a mile in a minute to be there. Something exciting was happening here and I couldn’t easily describe it, but I hoped that after this afternoon I wouldn’t quite be the same again.

I entered on Mr Henderson’s command. I was surprised to find Miss Lowenstein waiting there: not only was she determined to make sure I got my beating; she was going to personally witness it.

Mr Henderson had a modern office and it was very small. With all the filing cabinets you couldn’t swing a cat (or hardly a cane) in it. He probably looked like a typical comprehensive schoolteacher: wearing a rather scruffy shirt and plain tie with beige trousers that had seen better days since he bought them at a cheap chain store many years ago.

There wasn’t much room with all three of us present. I stood as best I could in front of Mr H’s Formica-covered desk. It was a mess, piled high with files and school notebooks. Miss Lowenstein moved out of my eyesight, probably all the better to get a view of what was to happen next.

Mr Henderson didn’t quite know what to say. He called me “Walton,” which isn’t quite my name. He mumbled something about how awful I had been. He actually said my behaviour was “ugly” and I suppressed a laugh at that, knowing that word perfectly described Miss Lowenstein.

I said something nondescript in return and then he told me matter-of-factly that he was going to cane me.

He moved to a filing cabinet. I hadn’t noticed before, but on top of it lay a short stick. This was no crook-handled ashplant cane beloved of public school masters; this was a piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long and so rigid it would be impossible to bend it, or get much of a swish out of it.

Then he said the wonderful words I had dreamt of hearing for so long, “Bend over, Walton.”

There wasn’t anything to bend over, a desk or a chair, so heart thumping madly I just bent down. He hadn’t given the time-honoured command “touch your toes,” so I leaned forward a bit and keeping my legs straight I put my hands on my knees. That was enough. I was stooped there showing sufficient backside to serve the purpose.

I waited staring down at the worn carpet for the first stroke to land, remembering all those times I had bent touching my toes in front of the mirror. It didn’t matter how much it hurt I would shut my teeth and stick it, just like the boys in the stories I loved so much.

There was no swish as the cane landed on my bum, just a dull thud. I felt it, but there was no searing pain. The second and third stoke landed. What a disappointment. I hardly felt a thing. Mr Henderson’s heart was not in this. I felt terribly let down.

I got six strokes, but there’s no way anyone could have mistaken them for “six-of-the best.” I remained bent over after the last one landed. I knew the etiquette was you stayed in position until you were given permission to stand up. In the stories if a boy stood up before being allowed he got extra strokes. I wouldn’t have minded some more, but I doubt Mr Henderson would have obliged.

Eventually, rather absent-mindedly Mr Henderson said I should get up. I did as I was told. Did my face show my disappointment? I can’t be sure, but I could see Miss Lowenstein had a face like thunder. She was not impressed. Had she wanted to see me jumping about from foot to foot clutching my bum in agony and choking in fits of sobs?

Maybe she did. I’m sure that’s what I wanted too.

Mr Henderson was still holding the cane, not sure what to do with it, or how to dismiss me from his office. I don’t suppose he had much experience caning schoolboys since corporal punishment had all but been abolished at the school.

Eventually he summoned up enough wit to send me on my way.

I was in no real pain. In the stories I would have been rubbing my backside furiously as I rushed back to my study. I did have a surreptitious feel of the seat of my trousers, just a quick rub with my thumb, but there was no sensation there.

I knew I couldn’t go to the lavs to inspect the damage (if there was any) because they would be full of smokers and there’d be no privacy.

Instead, I went straight home. Thirty minutes later I was lying on my bed, my trousers and pants on the floor beside me. I was sorely disappointed. I couldn’t find a trace of the cane’s marks. It was as if it hadn’t happened. There were no welts or bruises that would last for days and no chance that I would have difficulty in sitting down at tea time or have to sleep on my stomach tonight.

I leaned over and took an ancient storybook and a handful of tissues from the bedside table. They certainly knew how to deal with misbehaving seniors at St Tom’s School.

….

Dr Tulke rose from his writing-table. To Wooton’s surprise, he picked up a cane. Wooton could not see what the cane was wanted for.

He was, however, soon to discover.

“Senior boys,” said the Head, “are not usually caned at St, Tom’s, but there are exceptional cases that can be dealt with in no other way. Bend over that desk, Wooton!”

“Eh?”

“Bend over that desk!”

Wooton – bewildered and dismayed – bent over the desk.

Swipe! Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe!

It was not merely “six.” It was as thorough a licking as Dr Tulke had ever administered; such a licking as Wooton had seldom or never experienced before.

It seemed like a horrid dream to Wooton of the Sixth. But it was no dream; it was painful reality. Very painful! The head was a venerable gentleman, but he seemed to have a lot of beef in his right arm. He put it all into that whacking.

Wooton fairly squirmed.

“Now,” said the head, breathing hard, “you may go, Wooton! Not another word, or I shall cane you again! Go!”

Wooton almost tottered from the study. He left with pale face and compressed lips. His eyes were burning like hot coals.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over

New boy at school

Caught smoking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com