The Dean of Dorm Discipline

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The sunshine beamed through the window awakening Mitch from his slumbers. Blearily he turned to look at his watch. He had better get a move on, he daren’t miss his appointment.

He stretched a little and yawned before pulling the sheet from his body. His mauve and yellow pants bulged and for a few moments he lay admiring himself. The pants were too tight so he pulled them down to his thighs liberating his Morning Glory. No time to handle that now, he thought as he kicked off the pants.

Seconds later he was on his knees down on the floor ready for his morning exercises. Mitch was a fit lad and had no problem executing twelve push-ups at some speed. Then he turned on his back for the twelve sit-ups that completed his daily routine.

He was sweating a little by now, but not because of the exercises; it was probably the belly full of beer he had drunk before falling into bed in the early hours.

He really should take a shower but there was no time so Midge picked up a flannel and soaked it under a tap. His soldier was still pointing to the sky and aching like crazy. It only took five or six strokes before the nineteen-year-old shot his load into the hand basin.

He cleaned himself down with the cloth and then rubbed it over the rest of his body. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. He also noticed one or two hairs on his chest: he would deal with them sometime over the weekend.

He only had five minutes before he was due at his meeting, he had better hurry. He looked around the room; he had no clean clothes (that would be another task for the weekend he thought.)

He picked the pants off the bed, checked them for skid marks, and decided they would have to do. He grabbed a t-shirt that had only been worn twice since its last trip to the laundry and tugged that over his head, sniffing his armpits as he did so. A can of deodorant lay nearby and Mitch sprayed a liberal quantity all over his shirt.

He picked up some old sweats and pulled them over his pants. It didn’t matter which trousers he wore, they wouldn’t be staying on for very long.

Picking up his keys, the teenager left the room and hurried to the top floor of the dorm block to meet the Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

….

Frank looked down at the grubby brown carpet, his hands on his knees and his bottom jutting out slightly. He was sweating a little and his breathing was shallow. Despite his best efforts his buttocks remained clenched in anticipation.

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline looked on at the young student. The boy was wearing dark grey short trousers. It was a hot day, even at this early hour, and shorts were certainly the best clothes to wear. But, Frank wasn’t wearing summer shorts, his were short trousers like children wore as part of their school uniform. In his a grey short-sleeve shirt, he was perfectly dressed for a day in the classroom: if he were about eight years old.

What was going on in the student’s head, the Dean wondered as he selected a paddle; he was building quite a collection. This was Frank’s first appearance before him, so he selected a stout wooden specimen about fourteen inches long and four inches wide. Unlike some of his others, this paddle was solid without holes (manufacturers put holes in the heavier paddles so they could fly through the air towards their target with minimum wind resistance).

The Dean had devised a tariff for his punishments, he believed it was fairer to treat everyone equally, and the students knew exactly where they stood if they broke the rules. He gave first offenders twelve hard whacks on the seat of their trousers. For a second offence they got twelve on the underpants, swiftly followed by another twelve on the bare. In the six months since his job had been created, the Dean had never had to deal with a boy for a third time.

Frank was wondering why his punishment had not yet begun and craned his neck to look behind him at the Dean.

“Face the front boy, you’ll find out what’s going on back here soon enough.” It was a little joke the Dean liked to make every time a student made such a move.

He stepped forward and placed his hand into Frank’s shoulder blades pushing the teenager’s face a little closer to the carpet. Then he pulled the boy’s shirt out from the waistband of his short trousers exposing the skin of his lower back. Shirt tails are never long enough to cover a boy’s buttocks, so they don’t afford him extra protection. So, pulling the shirt clear is a wasted effort, but the Dean liked to do this as a ritual, believing it added something extra to the drama of the occasion.

He was now ready to deliver the swats. Although this was Frank’s first appearance in front of the Dean of Dormitory Discipline, it was not his first ever spanking. Like a lot of youngsters around his age, Frank had been caught out by the sudden change in the law, that not only reintroduced corporal punishment in schools, but permitted it to be also used on students up to the age of twenty-five and to young people more generally for certain criminal offences.

Frank was like most people of his age: he was self-centred, lacking much direction, a bit lazy and he rarely accepted the authority of his elders. In the six months since the law came into effect, Frank had been spanked twice; once to his great horror at the university for arriving at class late; and once at home by his father for what dad called his “insolence.”

Both spankings had been humiliating for Frank, but he soon discovered from his university friends that he wasn’t the only one getting his buttocks toasted. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Frank waited for the Dean to begin. He didn’t feel ashamed or humiliated, this was his third spanking in a few months and he was becoming used to them. Nor was he resentful. He had been caught smoking a cigarette in the university grounds. Smoking was now strictly forbidden and the punishment for transgression was widely advertised. Frank only had himself to blame for his situation. He promised himself he would take the spanking with whatever dignity he could and he wouldn’t cry or yell out.

The Dean loomed above him, the paddle gripped tightly in his hand. He was an expert: he swatted twelve stokes into his tight behind, making sure he wore out every inch of Frank’s backside. The teen grunted with each strike and had difficulty keeping in his ‘grab-the-knees’ position as the force of the paddle knocked him forward.

It hurt like Hell, much worse than the spanking his university lecturer had given him. That time it had been the palm of the hand on his bottom. Even his dad’s clothes brush didn’t have the impact of this paddle.

Frank grimaced and gasped a little as each swat connected with his dark grey short trousers. His buttocks quivered from side to side but the pain wasn’t too bad at first, but it grew as each successive blow fell on top of a previous strike, until he was roasting. He wanted to jump up and rub his burning bottom, but the fear of what the consequences of such behaviour might have been were too terrible to contemplate.

Frank’s shirt clung to his back with sweat and the teen’s underpants also seemed to be dripping wet. His eyes were damp, but he had successfully kept his promise and stopped himself from crying.

Frank knew there would be only twelve swats to endure, so after number ten landed low, almost on his bare thighs, he hoped the worst was over. But, the Dean had other ideas. He slashed down the final two at maximum force on the same spot right on the curves across the centre of both cheeks. The boy howled and stood upright, his hands clutching at his raw bottom; the agony was like nothing he had felt before, not even that time as a kid when he fell off his bike and broke his arm.

Realising his error in standing up he immediately resumed his position, fearful of what additional punishment he might receive.

But, the Dean was no sadist. He had promised twelve swats and he had delivered the twelve. The punishment was over. There would be no more today, but woe betide the boy if he were ever caught smoking again.

“Stand up. It’s over.”

Frank did as instructed. His eyes were moist, but he was not yet crying: that would wait for later once he had been dismissed by the Dean. His bottom felt like he had sat in a fire.

“If you are back here again, it will be twelve on the underwear followed by twelve on the bare. Do you understand?”

Frank nodded; he would not be making a return visit. The short trousers and underpants had not been much protection this time, the agony that twenty-four swats with twelve on the bare would cause him was beyond his comprehension. He made that promise that all recently spanked boys make: he would never do it again – and that’s a promise.

“Ok you can go.” And with his backside throbbing Frank left the Dean of Dormitory Discipline to deal with the other four students on his list that morning.

When Mitch arrived at the Dean’s room he wasn’t surprised to find three other students already waiting; it didn’t take long to discover all four were to be spanked for the same offence: breaking curfew.

Mitch had read in a newspaper somewhere that since the new regime had begun, breaking curfew was the most common reason why students were punished. He knew that even as he stood awaiting punishment there could be dozens, hundreds possibly, of students up and down the country also queuing to have their bottoms blistered.

Mitch was a pragmatist, like many students at his university. The rule was you had to be in the dorm by eleven at night. If you were caught breaking curfew you were paddled. All the students knew that: but you could only get paddled if you were caught.

It was like a cat and mouse game between the students and the university authorities. Mitch had broken curfew the previous two times he went out and wasn’t caught. Last night he wasn’t so lucky, but next time, who knew? For him the lure of the town’s nightlife and the girls was too good to miss (especially the girls) and if it meant getting a sore backside from time to time that was a price he was prepared to pay.

The students had a simple plan to avoid curfew. One of the lads who wasn’t going out would leave a window in the common room unlocked so it would be easy for a late arrival to climb in. But, you had to avoid the Dean. He wasn’t a fool and he would patrol after curfew, but he had a life too, so he wasn’t always on duty to catch the latecomers. And, the later the boy was in coming back, the better his chances of going undetected: the Dean needed his sleep just like anyone else.

Last night, the Dean had trouble sleeping so was still on patrol at three in the morning just in time to catch Mitch in the act of climbing through the window. He was caught red-handed, there was no excuse, he had broken the rules and now fully expected to be red-arsed by the time the Dean had finished with him.

All four boys had similar experiences and although none were great supporters of the new corporal punishment law, they all accepted the consequences if they were caught breaking the rules.

They waited outside the Dean’s door. On the other side it was obvious someone was getting his whacking. The knowledge that it would soon be his turn did little to settle his nerves. For Mitch, this was a second offence and he knew it would be twelve swats pants up and twelve down: an entirely new experience for him.

Soon, the door opened, and a youngster Mitch did not recognise hobbled out. He was close to tears and could not look at the four boys as he passed on his way back to his room where, no doubt, he would bawl his eyes out.

A moment later, the door opened again and the Dean of Dormitory Discipline beckoned Mitch to enter the room.

The Dean was in his mid-forties and had been a university lecturer for twenty years or more. He still was: his disciplinary role was an extra duty on top of his teaching. He had never expected to be the beater of boys’ backsides, but when the new law came in the university advertised the job and he was asked to apply. No one quite knew what experience a Dean of Dormitory Discipline could be expected to have. Corporal punishment had been banned for thirty years at least, so no one would have practical experience in administering it. The best the university could hope for was for a Dean who would take the job seriously.

In his twenty years on the job, the Dean had seen many youngsters waste their opportunity at the university; they were often lazy or distracted and ended up failing courses altogether or getting poorer degrees than necessary. He genuinely believed that with clear rules supported by corporal punishment when necessary the current crop of undergraduates would excel in their studies. He took his job very seriously indeed.

The Dean had a little sermon prepared. He used it often with the curfew breakers. It was about the need to obey rules for their own safety. The town was dangerous at night. They had to be punished for their own good. Mitch nodded at what he thought were appropriate points. He knew nothing he said would change the inevitable outcome.

Then the Dean got on to the second offence. The previous punishment obviously had not worked. Now, a more serious spanking was needed. Mitch still made no reply. He knew what was going to have to happen and he just wished the Dean would get on with it.

When he was ready, the Dean walked to the small cupboard attached to the wall and explored inside to retrieve a small wooden paddle, with the business end no bigger than a paperback book.

Mitch was confused. He had expected one of the largest and heaviest paddles would be used to take his backside off.

But, the Dean had a plan: he always had a plan.

Silently, he took hold of a small plastic armless chair and placed it in the centre of the room. Now, Mitch thought he knew what was going to happen.

His suspicion was confirmed when the Dean sat down in the chair and spread his legs. Mitch had not expected this and did not like it one little bit. The Dean expected him to bend himself across the old man’s knees as if he were a ten-year-old boy for a spanking. Worse than that, he would have to raise his bared bottom for the gaze of the Dean who would see into his crack and everything.

The Dean knew boys hated being spanked, that was the point of the exercise. He reckoned these big strapping students would hate it even more if they were reduced to little boys. Just think what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, no differently than when he was ten. He knows that his bottom will soon be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child when he is spanked.

The Dean sat in the upright chair, as Mitch stood, still hoping this was not going to happen. When the Dean was ready, he nodded at the student and almost in a trance he put his thumbs into the elasticated waist of his sweat pants and pulled them down off his hips, down, and down until they dropped of their own accord to his ankles. His white t-shirt, though, covered all but the lowest inch of his snug mauve and yellow pants.

Until recently, the Dean had very little experience spanking bottoms, but he was learning on the job. Experience had taught most spankers to favour the over-the-lap position in which the offending bottom can be elevated above the spanker’s right thigh or knee with both legs dangling down to the right. He had learnt that it was crucial that the bottom be as high and as far forward as possible, with maximum accessibility to the target area.

The paddle had already been placed close at hand, readily available for spanking without the Dean having to loosen his grip around Mitch’s waist.

So, the Dean gripped the teen by the arm and guided him over his knee. Once he was there he raised his shirt up his back then grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them tightly against his firm, flat, muscled backside.

The deafening splat with each paddle contact brought a gasp of pain from Mitch.

Mitch, now face down across the older man’s knees, grabbed the Dean’s ankle and held on tight, he gritted his teeth but he couldn’t stop himself from howling every now and then at a particularly hard and well placed swat. The Dean spanked into the taut cotton pants, spanking the bottom all the way from the lower back to below the crease on the upper thighs. The student struggled not to squirm or kick his legs, but the spanking went on and on and on.

Mitch lost count of the number of swats raining into his upturned bum, but the Dean had not. After twelve whacks he paused. Mitch was gasping and the pain was intense, but he still managed to keep his composure. Despite the agony, he thought he was taking this rather well.

The Dean paused only to slide the tight underpants down so they rested at the teenager’s thighs, then he renewed the onslaught, this time a little harder and into bare flesh.

Mitch howled and kicked like a child, begging the Dean to stop hurting him. The distressed boy was now writhing on his lap, vainly trying to protect his right buttock with a convulsively trembling hand.

Four more whacks followed with the Dean allowing a break between them for the sting of each to be fully appreciated. Mitch sobbed and yelped as each stroke landed on his bottom.

He accelerated and intensified the smacks from his paddle against the bare, upended behind. Mitch was bawling unashamedly, but the Dean seemed not to notice. A bawling boy was the expected result when it came to any bare-bottom spanking he administered.

Tears filled the student’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he squirmed and struggled to escape the relentless spanking being inflicted on him.

Then the Dean stopped and Mitch gulped for air like a goldfish out of water, thinking about how close to the edge of complete collapse he had come.

The Dean released his grip on the teen, who stumbled to his feet. His bottom was throbbing in protest at the indignities it had just received. His face was as red as the scorched flesh on his bottom. Quickly, Mitch tugged his underpants over his buttocks to hide his manhood from the man who had just roasted his naked backside.

Soon, the sweats were also in position and the Dean, who was a kindly man at heart, offered the boy a handful of tissues. When Mitch had regained some composure, he was dismissed with the words. “Send in the next boy.” The Dean’s work for the day was not yet over.

 

Other stories you might like.

In the farmhouse

Father deals with idle student

The apprentices

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The vicar and the gay boys

When the vicar spanked me on my bare bottom I don’t know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

My friend Lenny and I were in our early twenties and secretly used his churchyard for our couplings. I don’t know if we were in “love” or it was simply “lust”, but our relationship gave both of us great comfort in an otherwise unkind world.

The church was secluded behind locked gates at night and people from the town kept well away after dark. There was a well-believed story that the churchyard was haunted and that its statue of King some-one-or-other had been known to walk at night.

We thought we were safe, as we’d used the churchyard before without trouble. But, one day our luck ran out.

It was autumn and we climbed the fence at eight o’clock and ran through the shadows to a spot we by now considered our own. We didn’t waste time and were soon locked in each other’s arms and kissing passionately as a prelude to removing our clothes for love-making.

We had never been disturbed before and had become too complacent. That was our downfall. We never saw him until it was too late; he was upon us before we had a chance to run.

“What the …. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was a vicar scowling over us. He knew very well what we were doing, but, I suppose, he was genuinely at a loss for words.

I don’t have the words to describe the fear we felt. It happened such a long time ago. It was in the Dark Ages, when people like us were not called “homosexuals” or “gays”; we were “queers” and “perverts” and if our true nature was discovered we would lose our jobs, our families and our friends. We could even be sent to prison.

I suppose the vicar knew this and that’s why he took advantage.

He blocked our escape route, towering above the two of us standing at 6ft 2in and weighing nearly sixteen stone he was not someone to trifle with. He was big bear of a man, much older than us, with grey hair and a grey beard, but physically fit and imposing.

I had never seen the vicar in my life, but it was clear he knew Lenny. He called him words like “disgusting” “filthy”, “sordid”, “revolting” and “repulsive”, as if he had swallowed a thesaurus.

I knew that even if we did try to make a run for it there was no escape: the vicar would be able to track us down and bring the full force of the unjust law down on our trembling bodies.

He pulled both of us by our shirt collars and dragged us into his vicarage that was tucked away behind the church. I was startled; I had never realised he lived in the churchyard and could have discovered us on any one of the many times we had made love here.

His strength was so great I had no option but to submit to his will and scurry behind him.

He deposited us in a huge room that was a cross between a library, a study and a living room. Menacingly, he turned the key in the door, removed it and theatrically put it in his trouser pocket. He was telling us we were his prisoners.

“Stand there, both of you.” He pointed to a patterned rug in front of a large desk. He sat down behind it and I swear addressed us like we were naughty children. I didn’t realise it immediately, but that was precisely what he thought we were and he was going to treat us accordingly.

He thundered at us some more calling us “repellent”, “sickening”, “nauseating”, “horrendous” and “awful” and other words that he had forgotten earlier. In my state of terror, I didn’t see that this rage was faked. He was “putting on the style”, the way vicars do when they’re giving the brimstone and hellfire stuff on a Sunday. He didn’t really believe in any of it.

Then out of nowhere he told us, “What you need is a nice warm whipping.” And, it was clear from the self-righteous look on his face that this time he did mean it.

“You need to have the evil thrashed out of you,” he continued. Then he fumed some more. He must have been quite a literary gent because in the next few sentences he managed to get in “spank”, “whack”, “tan” and “slap”. If I hadn’t been so petrified of him and the situation I was in, I would have seen him to be the sanctimonious pervert that he really was.

Eventually, he regained a semblance of composure and pronounced the predictable: he was going to spank us. There was no negotiation, but it was immediately clear that if we took our punishment that would be the end of the matter; no police, no prison, no hurtful revelations to our employers, family and friends. The vicar’s power over us was total.

After all his fulminations I expected at the very least he intended to flog us until the skin peeled off our backs and was genuinely astonished when he picked up a bedroom slipper from near the fireplace and announced he was going to spank us with that.

So, it was almost with a sense of relief and joy that we went through our preparations to satisfy our jailer.

The vicar turned a large armless chair away from a dining table so it faced inwards to the room. He sat down, took some time to make himself comfortable, spread his huge legs wide, and pronounced, “Larry, take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.”

Larry and I exchanged glances. We knew we were cornered and had no choice but to submit to this pervert. If we were obedient and allowed him his pleasure, we would be free to leave. If we did not, our lives would be totally ruined.

Faking nonchalance, Larry took off his pullover to gain access to the braces that were holding up his trousers, then released them over his shoulders. They did not fit well at the waist and of their own accord his trousers slipped over his hips down his thighs towards his knees. I could see the look in his eyes was meant to convey to the vicar Larry’s utter contempt for him.

The vicar didn’t care. He was enjoying this too much. He screwed the bedroom slipper in his fist as he scrutinised my friend, “Underwear down. Now!”

With distain Larry undid his woollen drawers revealing his uncut penis to the vicar, who studied it closely. He couldn’t help himself; he had never seen anything like it before. He was sweating a little when he instructed Larry, “Come bend across my knee.” He patted his thigh to encourage my friend, whose contempt for the vicar couldn’t have been greater.

Larry moved forward, put his hands on the vicar’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He was a small boy, we all were in those days; it was poor diet mostly. The tininess of Larry’s body contrasted with the ample frame of the vicar. Larry was so small neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground; his pert bottom rested over the thick knees of his punisher.

The vicar wrapped his arm around Larry’s middle and lifted him up, moving him further forward so that his bottom was positioned even higher to receive the attention of his slipper. He pinned Larry’s feet down with his own right leg and restrained his back with his left arm. The boy could not move and was entirely at the mercy of the vicar.

He might have been twenty-one or twenty-two at the time, I can’t remember exactly, but in this situation, Larry looked just like a small boy about to be punished by an adult. He could have been eight years old.

Content that his victim could not escape; the vicar lifted the slipper towards the ceiling and brought it crashing down across the centre of Larry’s buttocks with such force a bright red mark immediately appeared and the young man gasped in shock.

Several more blows rained down in rapid succession, echoing around the room like the rattle of machine gun fire. Larry tried to wriggle free, but the vicar seemed to be an expert spanker; he was in absolute control of the situation. He was going to spank Larry as hard and for as long as he wished and there was nothing the boy could do about it.

The slipper spanked into Larry’s buttocks, covering every part of his tight flesh, from the base of the spine through the fleshiest part of the globes to the sit-spot where the bum and the thighs meet. Sadistically, the vicar also smacked down his slipper onto the thighs themselves, causing, if Larry’s reaction was anything to go by, intense pain.

I watched from a distance unable to help my friend, conscious of the agony he was suffering, but also aware of the strange feelings in my loins. I was sure I wasn’t turned on by the pain he was suffering, but there was something about his submissiveness that made my pulse race.

I knew that Larry would not want to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him, but after what must have been one hundred or more spanks, his resolve was broken. His cries were hardly audible at first, but they became louder as the whacking intensified, until he was openly weeping as each successive slap of the slipper fell on his raw bottom, opening up new waves of pain.

Eventually, after who knows how much time, even this heartless vicar had satisfied himself. He stopped spanking, but held Larry trapped across his knees, while with the palm of his hand he gently patted the scorching buttocks.

“My, look how pink your bottom is,” and rubbing gently some more, “And how hot it is.”

Larry’s humiliation now total, the vicar released his grip and my friend jumped up, hopping from one foot to the other, rubbing at his scorched flesh while performing a kind of dance.

It was soon to be my turn to go over the vicar’s knees. My heart beat quickened with excitement and my mouth was drying up. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I knew this was going to be extremely painful and humiliating, but I wanted it to happen so much.

The vicar beckoned me across his knees and meekly I offered him my bared bottom. If I could have done so, I would have happily stripped myself totally naked: no better; I would have allowed the vicar to do it for me, before throwing myself across his legs in complete submission to his slipper.

The vicar pinned me down in exactly the same way he had Larry. Somehow, my realisation that this strong older man was mastering me made me feel secure. I can’t explain it. I knew by now that he was exploiting me to satisfy his own desires, but I didn’t care. I needed someone like the vicar to control me; to bring out that side of my nature that craved to be dominated.

He slippered me for as long and as hard as he had Larry, leaving my backside blistered. It would throb for hours after the spanking had finished. But, I still needed more.

I never met the vicar again. Larry and I steered clear of the churchyard and a few months later, he joined the army and I never saw him again. But, I still think about that night a lot. How it ignited appetites in me that I never knew existed. But, those passions could never be gratified; how could they, we lived our entire lives in the darkness.

 

Other clergyman stories you might like.

  A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers

The Spanking Vicar, 1. The new tenant

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The padded armchair

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A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. For more stories click here

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper.

He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper. It was as simple as that. It didn’t matter whether you were in the first form, or like Jack the Upper Sixth. He wasn’t alone. His friend Jenks had just been dealt with and Tony Wheeler was standing outside the room in the corridor waiting his turn.

Jack wasn’t a fool. In fact he was quite bright but he hated history and nothing Mr Hendry, the history master, did would change that. If he paid attention in class and read the text book he would pass his tests with ease.

But, he didn’t so here he was about to get a sore bum: again. It wasn’t the first time he had received corporal punishment and it wouldn’t be the last, it was that sort of school.

Jack looked across at Mr Hendry and only half listened to the lecture he was delivering. “Idle, blah blah; lazy. blah, blah.”

Mr Hendry wasn’t like most of the other masters at the school. He was only twenty-five and had a round open face that naturally liked to smile. Jack had seen Mr Hendry one weekend in town at a coffee shop. He was dressed in fashionable summer shorts with a flower-patterned shirt. He was with a young lady (was it his girlfriend, or wife even?) and they were laughing and joking and having fun. They seemed very relaxed in each other’s company. No one would have guessed he was a schoolmaster at crusty old St Francis Independent Grammar School.

Mr Hendry looked very different now. He was dressed in a dowdy checked sports jacket and big baggy dark grey trousers. And of course the traditional academic gown, the schoolmasters’ uniform at St Francis. Mr Hendry had learned a long time ago that masters did not smile, and he had perfected a sour expression that fell somewhere between a man who had both a pain in his stomach and a very unpleasant smell under his nose.

“Bend over the chair Wilks.”

Jack took a pace forward and eased himself into the soft padding of the chair. It was a huge leather chair with cushions at the back, the seat and even the arms. His body sank into the padding and his face rested on the seat. He put his hands forward and held on to the edge of the cushion and noticed there were two sweat stains in the shape of palms.

From his vantage point Wilks could watch Mr Hendry make his final preparation. The slipper he was to use was a size-ten white plimsoll, the type all the boys used in physical training classes. It was rare for schoolmasters to use the slipper at St Francis, the curved-handled rattan cane was the preferred weapon of chastisement.

Herr Mueller, the German PT instructor, was the only other master Jack could think of who used the slipper: and, he used it all the time. Only yesterday in gym class he had lined all the boys up to begin physical jerks and warned. “From now on, any boy who talks gets ten swats.”

Of course, the class joker Morrissey couldn’t resist saying, “Jawoll Mein Führer!” in a stage whisper.

Later that day when Morrissey showed off his marks (tight cotton PT shorts are no protection), he reckoned, “Do you know I think he enjoys whacking our arses.” It could be, and, one might suspect, Morrissey enjoys giving him the excuse.

Mr Hendry gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand and gave it a few smacks down into his left palm, to get its measure. Then Jack saw the master disappear behind him. The teenager was still wearing his green school blazer and the master had to manoeuvre it up his back a little away from the area of immediate interest.

Satisfied that the target area was clear, the schoolmaster gripped Jack’s trousers at the waist and tugged them up tight so that they performed a ‘wedgie’ emphasising the shape of his buttocks and the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

Jack took a deep breath and screwed his eyes tight and waited for the pain to begin.

The boys often discussed whether the cane hurt more than the slipper; Jack always voted for the cane. In truth, it depended on who was inflicting the punishment. The cane tapped lightly into fleshy buttocks is unlikely to hurt as much as a size-ten rubber-soled plimsoll whacked in at great force.

Mr Hendry believed in corporal punishment and knew for it to be effective it had to be painful. So he was of the ‘whack it in with great force’ school of disciplinarians. And, that’s exactly what he did to Jack.

Six swipes crashed into his upturned buttocks. He pushed his face down into the vast soft cushion to stifle any yelps he might need to make and gripped onto the front of the armchair for dear life.

Every whack hurt him, but he had to admit, it did not hurt so very much. He was sore, but very quickly the throbbing would turn into a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender for a while and he would have some bruises to show off to his classmates, but they would wear off pretty quickly.

“Stand up boy.”

Jack was red faced from being bent upside down over the chair, but there were no tears. Despite the number of times he had been beaten at school, the experience always embarrassed him and he kept his head down to avoid looking at his punisher. He even avoided eye contact when the master handed him the punishment book to sign.

Then, with his bottom tingling, Jack was dismissed with the words, “Send in the next boy.”

 

Other stories from St Francis Grammar School you might like.

New boy at school

A punch in the face

The run

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Yellow Pages spanking

Gerry opened his eyes wearily. His head pounded and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His shoulder ached from sleeping on the floor all night.

Across the living room, blinking back at him was a boy about his own age.

“Who are you?”

The boy rose to a sitting position, “Who are you?”

Gerry gaped at the boy, dressed in snug-fitting blue jeans and an ordinary white shirt open to the navel. It was the kind you would wear for school or the office. Gerry wanted to slip his hand inside the shirt and caress his hairless chest.

The boy beamed, “Great party!”

“Yeah, great party.”

Gerry’s head throbbed as he hauled himself to a sitting position. He could not stop staring at the stranger. The boy’s dark brown eyes lit up the room. Absurdly, the song “Brown-eyed Handsome Man” played in his head. It was in the hit parade and they had danced to the record a lot last night.

“I’m Pauley,” the boy grinned.

“Gerry.”

“Hi, Gerry!” the boy coyly waved at him across the room.

Gerry flushed and giggled, “Hi, Pauley!” he waved back.

They lapsed into silence.

Then, “Gee! Look at this mess.” Gerry spread his arm to emphasise the point, as if it was not patently obvious that a party had gotten out of hand.

“Yes, Sir!” Pauley grinned. Gerry loved the way the boy’s white teeth shone, the sparkle contrasting with his the deep suntanned face.

“Yes, Sir! That is one heck of a mess.”

Gerry’s face flushed again. His embarrassment was obvious.

“My parents are due at six; we’ve got to clear this mess up.”

Pauley flashed that smile. “What will happen if they find out?”

Gerry did not speak, but shot Pauley a look that said, “You know darn well what will happen if my parents find out!”

And, Pauley did. He knew what his own dad would do if it had been his party. A worn heavy razor strop was kept in the kitchen drawer for just such contingencies. Pauley would have his nose in the kitchen table, his jeans and shorts at his knees, while his dad lashed sunset stripes across his naked buttocks.

“Cheer up! I’ll help you clean up.”

Gerry had a cracking hangover and could barely move himself, but Pauley was full of energy. Soon empty beer bottles and cigarette ends were in the trash can. Gerry stood in admiration while Pauley waltzed around the rooms with a vacuum cleaner. Did he imagine it or was Pauley wriggling his slender hips and pert buttocks provocatively? His blue jeans clung to the contours of his body.

“Nearly finished,” Pauley cooed, “Just the hallway to do now.”

With that he disappeared from Gerry’s view.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Pauley in the hallway was a little over-dramatic.

“What is it?”

“Come see.”

Gerry’s head was crashing; he was in no mood for this.

“Oh, heck!”

“Yes. A problem don’t you think.”

The game was up now. Gerry would be found out and he was going to get one fine whipping.

There was a scratch about an inch long in the hallway table. It was no ordinary table, but a family heirloom, that had been handed down from Gerry’s grandmother after she passed on a few months previously.

Pauley ran his finger along the line in the dark shiny wood. “It’s not very deep. Maybe you can get it fixed.”

“Get it fixed!” Gerry was in despair and losing his temper. “How can I get it fixed? Who can fix it?”

Gerry’s eyes moistened and Pauley thought his new-found friend was about to break down sobbing.

“I know!” Pauley’s face lit up and he clicked his fingers in an exaggerated fashion. “Yellow Pages!” he grinned, his white teeth once again shining.

“Yellow Pages?” Gerry did not understand.

“Yes, Yellow Pages,” it seemed that Pauley was always smiling, “Let your fingers do the walking,” he sang the jingle from the commercial that constantly aired on radio.

“We have a copy in the other room.”

Gerry watched Pauley’s buttocks disappear into the kitchen. The boy emerged moments later with the big yellow phone book in his hands. He was already turning through the pages.

“Here. Furniture restorers.” He ran his finger down the page. “There are quite a lot, actually.”

He handed the directory over. “Here call one of these. You should be OK.”

While Gerry made his calls, Pauley disappeared into the bathroom. By the time he emerged, Gerry had arranged for a Mr Fisher to attend urgently. Gerry’s hide might yet be saved.

“Good luck then,” Pauley opened the front door, but paused before leaving. For what felt to Gerry like an hour, but was only a few seconds, the pair stood not quite looking at each other.

Once again, Gerry coloured-up unable to hide his embarrassment. Who was this new friend? He knew nothing about him, not where he lived or how he came to be at the party. Did one of his friends bring him?

He wanted to rip the boy’s shirt off right now. But, then what? Gerry had no idea, but he knew he would regret it forever if he did not make a move. He should at least arrange another meeting. They could go to a ball game or something.

Pauley beamed, “See you then!” but his grin faded a little when he saw a flicker of regret in Gerry’s eyes.

“I’m Katie’s brother,” Pauley winked and sashayed his tight ass out the door.

Katie’s brother? Katie Albright from school! Gerry skipped to his room and unzipping his jeans he lay on his bed. There were twenty minutes before Mr Fisher was due to call, plenty of time to dream of Pauley and Gerry.

He was brought back to real life by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Gerry had never met a furniture restorer before, but he imagined they probably all looked like Mr Fisher. He was aged somewhere between thirty-five and fifty and wore faded brown corduroy pants and a buttoned up beige cardigan. He had a florid face from being in the sun, but the skin had not tanned. A pair of round glasses gave his fleshy face the appearance of an owl.

He carried a black leather bag, rather like the ones family doctors were seen with in the movies.

“Good afternoon, I am Mr Fisher,” he spoke in soft tones.

“Thank you for coming sat such short notice,” Gerry hoped he did not sound as desperate as he felt.

“Here is the table, can you fix it?”

It took no more than a five-second appraisal. “Yes, of course I can.” Mr Fisher was a little irritated by this youth, who doubted his expertise.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Gerry’s tone intrigued Mr Fisher. The youth was far too anxious about a little scratch on a table. There was something he had not been told.

“So,” Mr Fisher said, as he opened and delved into his bag, “How did this happen?”

Gerry blustered, he did not want to tell. It was none of this stranger’s business.

“If you could hurry up please, I have to go out soon.” It was already past four in the afternoon. His parents would be calling him from the airport at about six for him to collect them; there was no time to lose.

Mr Fisher was not to be deterred. He was a professional and he had agreed to do this emergency job, even though it was his day off. He had a successful business and did not need the fee the work would bring. But, he had been intrigued by the youth’s call and his desperation.

Mr Fisher sized up the situation. “Are your parents here?”

Gerry blushed yet again. “Eh, no, they …” the sentence trailed off.

“Let me guess,” Mr Fisher was stern. “They are away and you had a party without permission and this valuable table was damaged by one of your houseguests.”

Mr Fisher had got it in one. Gerry remained silent. If Mr Fisher had been a cop the boy would be invoking the Fifth Amendment: say nothing and do not incriminate yourself.

“Yes, I thought so,” Mr Fisher sounded like Gerry’s father. Gerry knew he would get a stern lecturer from dad if he found out about the party. Then the lecture would be followed by a damn good hiding.

“What would your father do if he found out about this?” Mr Fisher was sure he already knew the answer.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me young man. What would your father do?”

Gerry’s heart raced. There was no way he was going to tell Mr Fisher the truth.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know! Then why have you called me in at such short notice?”

Gerry stared down at the polished floor tiles. He did not like the way this conversation was going.

Mr Fisher was determined to get an answer. “What would your father do?”

“He would be very angry,” Gerry mumbled, his eyes still cast downwards.

“What would he do!” Mr Fisher’s anger was apparent.

Gerry croaked, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do, young man,” Mr Fisher’s tone of voice alarmed Gerry. The furniture restorer was not going to let up on this and he was not about to give him an answer.

Mr Fisher broke the silence. “What you need is a damn good spanking and I am sure that is what your father will give you when he finds out.”

When he finds out, was Mr Fisher going to tell him?

“But ..” Gerry started, but did not know what to say.

“Do I have this right? Your parents are away on a trip and they left you at home alone. They told you to behave and that you must look after the house and that there must be no parties while they are gone. You disobeyed your parents and last night you had a party at which alcohol was drunk and cigarettes smoked. This morning you discovered this table had been scratched and now desperate to keep the party secret from your parents, you want me to repair it and to cover up your disobedience.”

Gerry stared at the floor.

Mr Fisher concluded, “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Gerry, head bowed, mumbled into his chest.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Yes Sir!” Mr Fisher barked.

“Sorry, Yes, Sir,” Gerry was scared. Mr Fisher had been correct in every particular. His father had been very strict: no parties. Gerry had clearly and deliberately disobeyed him.

“What are you going to do?” Gerry asked mournfully, and then hurriedly added, ‘sir.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

Gerry had not expected this. “Please don’t tell my parents.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Gerry had no answer for this, but he tried. “They will be very disappointed in me.”

“That’s no answer. They should be disappointed in you, you have abused their trust.”

“I’m sorry,” Gerry was miserable. There was no way to escape a whacking, now. It had been a great party and he would be popular at school for a while because of it. He did not feel guilty about disobeying his parents; he did it all the time, but rarely got found out. Now that he had been discovered he would have to suffer the consequences. It was the pain and humiliation of a spanking that worried him, not his guilt.

“Pah!” Mr Fisher exhaled. “Sorry. Yes, you should be sorry. You deserve a sound spanking, young man!”

“I’m nineteen; I’m too old to be spanked.”

“You are not too old. You do not become an adult until you are twenty-one. And if you so deliberately disobey your parents you should be spanked.”

Gerry had not expected to get away with it. His father had said much the same thing last month when the boy had been caught drinking beer with friends. One of them had a fake ID and they had bought a few six-packs. Gerry was soon across his dad’s knee for a bare-arsed paddling. His friends’ dads took similar action. They all got it; they lived in that kind of community.

Mr Fisher had a plan. “I shall spank you, but I will not tell your parents.”

Gerry had not expected this; his head still ached from drinking too much beer and he could not think quickly enough. So he said nothing.

“What does your father use when he spanks you?”

“He doesn’t spank me.”

“Come, come. Please don’t tell lies.”

Confused and unsure where this would all end, Gerry muttered something about “a paddle.”

“Where does he keep the paddle?”

“Don’t know.”

“Come, come, you are lying to me. Where does he keep the paddle?”

“In there,” Gerry nodded towards the cupboard under the stairs.

“Please fetch it for me.”

Miserably, Gerry moved the few feet to the cupboard, opened the door and extracted the wood.

“Hand it to me please.” It was a typical paddle, the kind used in schools up and down the state. Mr Fisher held it in his right hand and read the inscription written on the blade: ‘Board of Education.’ Did anyone ever find that funny? he wondered to himself.

Gerry was no stranger to the paddle. His father believed in both discipline and punishment. If Gerry behaved and did as he was told, he would be fine. But, if he disobeyed the rules, or disrespected his parents or any other adult, the board would be fetched. Gerry knew what paddle pain was like and he did not relish having to suffer a dose from Mr Fisher.

He had no choice, he reckoned. Whatever happened he would get a hard spanking. If he let Mr Fisher take the paddle to his butt, that would be the end of it. If his father found out, not only would his buttocks be blistered, he would never be allowed to stay alone in the house again.

“Come let us go into the next room,” Mr Fisher spoke quietly as he caressed the paddle, almost reverentially.

Despondently, Gerry followed the furniture restorer into the lounge room. It was the first time Mr Fisher had been in the room but he quickly appraised the situation. It was a large space with a dining table and chairs, all of which would be good for the boy to lean across to offer up his butt for a whipping. But better, was the leather couch. It was the perfect height to take Gerry’s lithe body.

“There,” Mr Fisher pointed with his paddle to the dark brown couch. “Stand behind there.”

Gerry was resigned to his fate. He had to let matters take their course.

“Take down your jeans. You may keep your underwear on.”

It was a result of sorts. Gerry’s father would have insisted on a bare-assed spanking and this way Gerry was not forced to show his crack and hole to a stranger. Gerry’s jeans were so tight he had to wiggle to get them down. His butt went this way, then that, and back again. Slowly, inch by inch, the jeans descended to his knees.

“Bend over.”

Gerry took a deep breath, fell forward and curved himself across the back of the couch. Despite his many spankings, he had never been in this position before; his father preferred to take his son across his knees. Gerry felt the thin cotton of his briefs ride up a little and a cool breeze brushed against his naked thighs. He gripped the cushion of the couch as if his life depended on it.

Mr Fisher did not say a word until it was all over. Gerry heard him approach from behind and then felt his strong hand grip at the waistband of the underwear. He tugged and smoothed at the cotton until the briefs fitted Gerry’s butt like a second skin. Gerry’s ass was ready: ready for chastisement, but not necessarily for contrition.

Then, Mr Fisher took a pace back, raised the wood to above his shoulder and brought it smacking down across the centre of both cheeks.

It knocked all the wind out of the boy. He panted to catch his breath. The pain was incredible; Mr Fisher had whacked him ten times harder than his father ever had. Of course, Gerry who had always been spanked across the knee, did not yet appreciate how much more power could be put into a swat if the punisher was standing up, and whacking it in from some distance away.

Ten hard swats landed one after another, rhythmically. Swat! He felt the force of the blow reverberating through the flesh, sending waves of pain cascading through his buttocks. Crack! Both cheeks shook with the impact. Snap! He felt another stripe of pure agony appear, this one farther down than ever before.

Mr Fisher paid no heed to Gerry’s gasps as they turned to yelps and then yells, until finally as the last two swipes crashed into his cheeks, he screamed. Real tears streamed down the boy’s face and his body heaved, gasping for air. His throat, full of phlegm made him gag and he feared he might choke.

Each lick of the paddle seemed to set his entire buttocks aflame, pain pouring across the skin and coursing through each cheek. He stamped his feet up and down like a soldier on ceremonial sentry duty and his jeans fell and bunched at his feet. If he had not been wearing baseball boots, he would have kicked the denims across the room as he thrashed about.

“That’s over,” Mr Fisher was himself a little breathless with his exertions. “I shall leave you now and go and get on with my work.”

Gerry was still across the back of the couch, gasping for breath and shaking, like a goldfish that had been taken out of its bowl.

Slowly, painfully, he rose. His butt was so raw it felt like he had been forced to sit on a lighted coal fire. Gingerly, he rubbed at the seat of his briefs. Then, he tugged at the elasticated waist so he could observe the state of his flesh. Both buttocks were bright red and there were clear outlines of the paddle where it had sank into his flesh. Bruises were forming on the far edges of his globes. The pain, once agonizing, was subsiding now. Gerry knew from past experience that soon it would change from agony to become a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender to the touch for some considerable time and the bruises would probably last for many days; but the worst was now over.

Carefully, he pulled his jeans up. He regretted they were so fashionable and fitted tightly across the buttocks. He left the room and went into the hallway. Gerry passed Mr Fisher who was hard at work and did not say a word as the teen ascended the stairs to the bathroom to wipe his face and to change into looser fitting pants.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr Fisher’s work completed and his bill paid (it took most of Gerry’s savings from his job at the grocery store) the telephone rang.

“Hi mom, no everything’s fine here. No problems. Your plane’s in? OK, I’ll come and pick you up.”

Gerry put the phone down and went into the den to collect his dad’s car keys.

Then he saw it. How had he and Pauley not noticed it before? Darn! That was it; he was done for now. He would get the severest thrashing of his life, much worse than the one Mr Fisher had just delivered. His already tender bottom throbbed in anticipation of the whipping to come.

On the far wall, in its pride of place, was a formal portrait photograph of his recently-passed grandmother and some fool had drawn glasses, a moustache and Dr Spock ears on her face with an indelible marker pen.

 

Author’s note. This story was inspired by a Yellow Pages TV commercial.

 

Other stories you might like.

That Connor boy!

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Theft of petty cash

Shane waited outside his employer’s office, he knew that he was likely to be sacked and the police would be called: he would do anything to stop that happening.

He had stolen seven pounds from the petty-cash tin and been caught, it was as simple as that. There were no mitigating circumstances; he had wanted the money so he could go down the pub, it wasn’t as if he took it to feed his starving children or widowed mother.

Shane was eighteen years old and had worked at Ferguson’s since he left school two years previously. It’s true that he did have a widowed mother, but when his dad died a few years ago, he left behind a very good insurance policy and the family had lived very comfortably since.

No, Shane had stolen the money because he wanted it.

Mr Ferguson’s secretary opened the door, “He’ll see you now, Shane.” She flashed him a smile, she knew what was going on, but it was impossible not to like Shane, he was a charmer, many women, especially those old enough to be his mother, often thought.

Shane entered the office and stood in front of Mr Ferguson’s desk; he couldn’t help comparing it to his old headmaster’s study. He had visited that a few times, he recalled. But, this was not the headmaster, this was his boss: he wasn’t going to get the cane; he was getting the sack and a criminal record.

Mr Ferguson liked Shane too, but not in the way the women did. Even if he was only eighteen, Shane had the kind of ducking-and-diving spirit that was a good quality in a salesman. He had recently been promoted from general office assistant to a junior salesman; it might be the first rung on the ladder, but it was certainly on the ladder: Shane could climb very high with his talents.

But, now this had happened, Mr Ferguson thought: petty theft. He didn’t know it but Shane felt no remorse; sure he was sorry about being caught but not about the theft itself. He thought they were all hypocrites, the salesmen fiddled their expenses all the time and what was seven quid to a company like this?

Mr Ferguson wasn’t sure what to do. Shane was a thief, but let’s be honest, he thought, it wasn’t armed robbery and the boy’s not a thug. Actually, he’s just like a lot of kids his age, a bit selfish with no real scruples and he wanted everything on a plate, now. He just needs to learn to grow up; a short sharp lesson would be enough, he doesn’t need a criminal record.

When he first heard of Shane’s theft, Mr Ferguson thought how uncannily similar it was to his own experience thirty-odd years ago. He was eighteen years old when he and some pals stole a few bottles of beer from the local tennis club where his father worked as a steward. They took them into the fields and drank them. It was theft, of course, but also youthful high jinks. They got caught, but the police weren’t involved; he was thankful for that because a criminal record would have scuppered his successful career before it started.

Instead, his dad was informed and he dealt with it. And, how he dealt with it, Mr Ferguson could smile in retrospect, but at the time it was humiliating and painful. His dad marched him home and lectured him about how much he had embarrassed the family. And, here’s the rub, then he made him take down his trousers and underpants, bend over the arm of the settee, and he thrashed the living daylights out of him with his razor strop. He howled the house down with the agony and the indignity of it, but it taught him a lesson and he never stole again.

A bit of him wished that he could deal with Shane in the same way; a bloody good hiding would bring him to his senses and then we could all move on, but, he knew, if he told the boy’s mother he was a thief, she would die of shame and how would that help? Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to give him the punishment he so richly deserved.

Sometimes in the past, Mr Ferguson had hoped Shane might see him as a bit of a father figure, a role model if you like, but there was nothing to show he actually did. Perhaps, if Shane had done so, Mr Ferguson might be the one to give him a sound spanking now.

Shane expected the worse outcome from his meeting with Mr Ferguson; he had no excuses, he had stolen the money and he knew there had to be consequences for being found out.

If he realised what Mr Ferguson was thinking he would have jumped at the chance; he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been caned often at school for various misdemeanours such as smoking in the toilets and skiving off school at playtime: he was a naughty boy, but not a thug.

The idea that he might have to sack Shane and involve the police, upset Mr Ferguson and he really wished they could come to another arrangement. Then he had a brainwave; why not be honest with the boy, but he knew it would sound very odd if he just came out and said, “Let me spank you as a punishment.” How would that sound at an industrial tribunal?

Instead, he simply told Shane the story of the tennis club, the beer and the razor strop. When he finished there was an awkward silence between the two. Mr Ferguson could see Shane was debating with himself: should he or shouldn’t he? And, then he did.

“Could you spank me like your father did to you? he looked down at the carpet to hide his blushes.

“Well, I don’t know, Shane.” In fact, he did know, he knew very well that a leathering was the ideal solution.

“You must be quite sure Shane; it is a very unusual solution to the problem.”

Shane said he was sure, please don’t sack him, please don’t call the police.

“Well if it’s what you want, Shane.”

“If it’s what you want?” As soon as he heard the words, Shane was convinced it was exactly what he wanted. It was the perfect answer, the schoolboy’s solution if you like. You commit the crime, you get found out, you are punished and then we move on.

Yes, Shane was certain: a spanking would be the ideal resolution.

Alright, Mr Ferguson thought, the boy had consented to his belt whipping, so we should get on with it.

“Shane, take off your jacket and leave it on my desk.” With no obvious embarrassment, the boy did as he was told. “Now, take down your trousers and pants and bend over that chair.”

In a swift movement the smart city-style trousers were down, quickly followed by his crisp new briefs. He knew matters had to take their course, so took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and lent forward to offer his bare cheeks to Mr Ferguson’s belt.

His employer had no experience of spanking backsides, but instinctively knew the objective was to cause the punished boy considerable pain; otherwise what was the point? He doubled over the belt rested it across Shane’s buttocks to get his aim and lashed it down.

It had been two years since Shane was last caned, but he still had the schoolboy’s attitude that he should take it like a man. As the first six strokes landed across his bum he made no outward sign that he was in considerable pain. This was a tactical error, because, with his inexperience, Mr Ferguson assumed this meant his punishment was not working. So, he increased the tempo and brought the belt whacking into Shane’s bum harder and faster.

He covered both buttocks, from the top of the fleshy globes to the bottom. Shane’s resolve not to show pain did not last. His gasps turned to groans and then to whimpers. Despite himself he couldn’t stop shaking his legs as the pain built up in his bum to become agony.

Mr Ferguson remembered how his own father had thrashed him thirty years ago, it had been a rigorous beating, hard and fast, but it was not a flogging. His dad had wanted to get the point across, he had hurt his son badly, but not to the point that the boy resented his punishment or the man who punished him.

Mr Ferguson knew his father had spanked him out of love; he wanted his son to grow into a fine man (and he hoped he had fulfilled his father’s ambition). Likewise, Mr Ferguson loved Shane in a way and did not want to destroy any relationship they might have, but he did want him to learn and to mend his ways.

He whacked six more strokes across the centre of Shane’s bum and then told him to stand up.

Shane’s face was ashen and there were tears forming: how could such a thrashing not bring tears to the eyes? He rubbed gently at his bottom and then without waiting for his boss’s permission, he gingerly bent down to pull up his trousers and pants. His buttocks were tender and he felt the pain increase as his tight briefs hugged his burning bottom.

“Go home Shane: it’s over. If you mend your ways, we will not speak of this again.”

Shane picked up his jacket and limped from the office. He was relieved that Mr Ferguson’s secretary was nowhere to be seen and he left the building unobserved.

The pain turned to a glow quite quickly and it took a day or two for the bruising to go, but Shane did not feel he had been unjustly beaten. He had committed a small crime and had been properly punished for it and Mr Ferguson was right, there was no need to ever mention it again.

So long as Shane behaved in future.

 

Other workplace stories you might like.

 The office manager

The junior salesman

Six of the best caning stories 5. The performance review

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rooming house

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with red stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton. Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist of my pyjama bottoms and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

 

Other stories you might like.

Boy at the photocopier

The casting couch

The missed curfew

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over

I was sitting in my oak-panelled study waiting for Tomkins of the Sixth to report to me. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to give him twelve on the bare. He needed to learn a lesson and I was the one to teach it.

I luxuriated in my armchair reading the evening newspaper, enjoying my pipe. I was in no hurry. I had made him wait all day and only now, just before lights out, I sent word for him to see me immediately.

There was a light tap on the study door. Tomkins was here. I paused before answering. “Come!”

Tomkins knew he was due a beating. The door handle turned slowly and very reluctantly he pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into my study.

“Come in boy! Don’t dawdle! Close the door!” I snapped.

He closed the door as instructed and stood only a couple of paces inside the room, not sure what to do next.

“You wanted to see me sir.”

I peered at him over the top of my reading glasses. Tomkins, an eighteen-year-old senior boy, a prefect no less, was dressed in green-and-white-striped pyjamas. He was hopping from one bare foot to another in confusion.

“I’m not yet ready for you! Face the wall and wait for me.”

He looked around the study unsure where he was meant to go. It was a large room; one side was dominated by an as-yet unlit open fireplace. Mahogany bookshelves behind glass doors ran the length of the room alongside it.

The other main wall had closed cupboards, for teaching materials and so-forth. One cupboard that was taller and narrower than the others contained implements of an especial educational nature.

“There boy,” I pointed with my pipe to the corner nearest the door.

He turned around to face away from me.

“Closer boy! I want to see your nose touch the wall.” He shuffled into position.

“Hands on head!” He did as he was told.

I returned to my newspaper. Let him sweat a bit, I thought.

After a few minutes I had finished the newspaper and contemplated the task in hand. Tomkins was a repeat offender and had been caught smoking again. As his housemaster, I’d already beaten him once this term for smoking and he had been warned about his future conduct.

Smoking was bad enough, I thought as I puffed on my pipe, but to do it again after a previous punishment and thereby to disregard my instruction was rank disobedience and I would have none of it. His beating had to be exemplary.

“Turn around Tomkins,” I ordered. He did so, still clasping his hands to the top of his head.

“Come forward and stand in front of me.” He did. He must have been two or three inches taller than me, and I noticed for the first time that he was really incredibly thin.

Maybe it was because he was in his pyjamas. Last time I thrashed him he had been in full school uniform, including a pullover and blazer. That clothing must have bulked him out a bit.

“Take your hands off your head and stand up straight.”

He did so. Tomkins wasn’t a particularly pretty boy, I noticed. His thin face was pock marked and his teeth were pretty bad and if he carried on smoking the way he did they’d soon be yellow.

But, it wasn’t his front side that I was interested in this day.

I lectured him a little. It wasn’t really necessary: he knew why he was here. And, then I pronounced sentence.

“So, you deserve a sound thrashing and that is what you will receive. I’m giving you twelve cuts on the bare.”

I’m not sure he was expecting that. It was twice the number of strokes I had ever given him previously and canings on the bare at this school were rare indeed.

The colour drained from his already pasty-coloured face, but he remained standing, silent, waiting for my further instructions, and ready to comply with them.

I’d thought hard about whether it should be on the bare, after all his pyjama bottoms wouldn’t be much protection for the twelve stingers I intended to administer. But, he was a prefect and a serial offender and I was convinced he was cocking a snook at the school rules and my authority in particular, so I wanted to make him suffer.

I was also aware of a newspaper report I read a year or two previously. A school housemaster was in court charged with ‘indecent assault’ after he beat a boy on his bare bottom. How it got to court I don’t know. The magistrate dismissed the case and said if this was to be considered indecent assault half the housemasters in English public schools would be in court. Sensible fellow.

Not everybody believes in caning naughty schoolboys, of course. I have a housemaster colleague at the school here who never canes. He says the embarrassment of the punishment is as effective as the pain it might cause. Therefore, he takes his boys across his knee for a spanking.

I looked at Tomkins. Think about it, telling an eighteen-year-old boy to bend over your knee and then smacking him on his bottom. Can you imagine such a thing?

I went to the tall, narrow cupboard and took out the cane I had already decided to use. It wasn’t a big thick stick. People with no experience of these matters always assume the bigger and thicker the cane is, the more it will hurt. Not so.

The cane I chose was dark yellow in colour, quiet thin, but made of very dense rattan. It would leave its marks on Tomkins’ behind for many days to come.

I took it from the cupboard and swished it through the air, to show the boy what it could do. He looked apprehensive, as well he might.

“Stand by the desk,” I pointed with the cane. He moved in the right direction, but stopped short by two or three feet.

“Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more.

“Get those pyjamas down boy.” After some hesitation, Tomkins looked down at his waist, pulled at the cord holding his bottoms up and allowed them to fall to his ankles.

I stood within his eye line, swished my cane through the air two or three more times. Then I tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Without question, he leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk. His pyjama jacket was covering his bottom. I pushed it further up his back.

“Underpants Tomkins. You don’t wear underpants with pyjamas. Stand up.”

I suppose he wanted the extra layer of protection the Y-fronts would give him. He might have got away with it if he was to be whacked on his pyjama bottoms.

“Get them down.” Sorrowfully, Tomkins took hold of the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down to his ankles, where they rested on top of his pyjamas.

“Bend over boy.”

Tomkins repeated the manoeuvre. I pushed his pyjama jacket up, this time revealing a pair of surprisingly smooth and hairless buttocks.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.” I stood to his side a full cane length from him and after bending my knees a little I tapped the tip of the cane against the edge of his left cheek.

The tapping allowed me to take aim and then drawing my arm back several feet I crashed the cane across both buttocks. He whelped and a thick red line immediately appeared where the cane had bitten into flesh.

I repeated the procedure. He gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, even though I had intended it as a rhetorical question.

Two thick welts were rising, running across both his buttocks.

I managed to land the third and fourth cuts on top of the previous two. Tomkins was jerking his body from side to side. This was a reflex action against the pain, but mostly he was managing to keep quiet.

I liked the boys I thrashed to be stoic. I despised the boys who couldn’t take their canings and yelled and bawled their eyes out. I had enough experience beating schoolboys (and of being on the receiving end myself) to know that my canings hurt like hell. The boys might try to make it look that they were unconcerned by the pain, but I knew otherwise.

I lashed down strokes five and six. Tomkins’ head rose from the desk and he brought his arms back so he could bury his face in them.

I swiped a couple of strokes high and a couple low and was rewarded with a four almost inaudible “Arrrggghhhhs” from Tomkins.

The boy seemed to bite into his own arm after I delivered the next cut.

I whipped the final stroke diagonally across both of Tomkins’ buttocks, making sure the cane hit as many of the previously delivered cuts as possible. This time he desperately tried to muffle a loud yell, but he couldn’t quite keep it in.

I looked over at his face. It was almost as red as his backside. I could see his eyes were watering and he was trying not to cry.

I tapped the cane across his bottom. He braced himself, expecting another slash. But, there were to be no more. I had promised him twelve strokes and I had delivered twelve. I was a man of my word.

I tapped the cane on his left buttock one more time.

“Don’t let me catch you smoking again.”

“No sir.”

He was still lying across the desk. I walked behind him to admire my handiwork. His smooth, hairless, previously white, bottom was a mass of red welts. Some were turning blue and would change to purple before too long. Blood was forming at some of the intersections where my final diagonal cut had crossed the others.

“Stand up Tomkins. Get dressed.”

He shot up at such a speed he startled me. In one swift movement he bent down to grab his underpants, but it was with great difficulty that he pulled them up to his waist. He winced in agony as he pulled the Y-fronts over his buttocks and they connected with his wounds.

He bent down to his ankles again to retrieve his pyjama bottoms, flinching as he stretched the flesh of his buttocks against his pants.

He stood up and I was able to look him in the face. I could see he wanted to bawl his eyes out, but pride I suppose stopped him from doing this.

I gave him time to tie the cord of his pyjamas waistband.

“Back to your dormitory. No more trouble.”

He was through the door in a heartbeat.

 

Other school stories you might like.

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

What a disappointment!

Housemaster’s double caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com