Clint Chapman woke up with a start and an aching bladder. If he did not get to a toilet very soon he would have an embarrassing accident.
Geoff Dawson lay beside him; breathing heavily; in a deep sleep. This would be tricky, Clint was pinned against the wall; Geoff blocked his way. It was a single bed; no more than a child’s size really. There was no alternative; he would have to climb over the sleeping boy.
“War… war … what’s up,” Geoff woke with a start.
“Sorry, I’ve got to have a whiz,” Clint was already climbing over the boy’s body.
Geoff switched on the table lamp. It was three in the morning.
Clint was out of the bed. “Where are my pants?” He was stark naked.
Geoff ducked under the bedclothes to search for them.
“Don’t worry. Too late, no time,” and without a stitch of clothing on his body, Clint dashed through the door to the bathroom.
With his bladder emptied and his penis dutiful rinsed, Clint felt much calmer. Now, he could return to the eighteen-year-old schoolboy tucked up in bed. Clint’s penis perked at the prospect of another round of hot sex with the blond boy who waited for him.
He opened the bathroom door.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” There was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff-backed, wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, standing on the landing.
Clint blinked in the poor light at the man who was now blocking his pathway. The man’s moustache bristled as his steely-grey eyes burned into Clint’s body.
Clint’s face brightened to the colour of beetroot and he placed his hands strategically in front of his dangling privates.
“Are you a burglar?”
Clint’s grinned sardonically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “A burglar? Naked like this?”
“I’m a friend of Geoff’s, from school,” he said unconvincingly. He was no schoolboy.
The man in the dressing gown, realising his own urgent need to answer a call of nature, pushed his way into the bathroom.
Moments later, Clint back in the bedroom, recounted his chance meeting in the hallway.
“Shit! That’s my father. What did you say?”
“I told him I was a school friend.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
Clint wanted to ask: “Would you?” but knew this would upset the boy.
There was no chance of more sex that night; Clint was certain of that. He delved under the bedclothes, retrieved his mauve bikini briefs and wriggled into them.
“It’s freezing!” He shuddered to emphasise the point, as if Geoff would not believe him. Then he climbed over the boy and resumed his place in the narrow bed, squashed up between the eighteen-year-old and the wall.
The light was off and they were both snuggling under the blankets, when the door swung open. The man in the dressing table, his jaw set in a fierce scowl, thundered into the room.
He switched on the light. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?” his purple face betraying the fury he felt.
Clint smiled wanly and waved hello.
“Who is this?” the furious father stormed across the small room to stand by the bed. It looked like at any moment he might drag Clint from beneath the blankets.
Geoff was breathlessly trying to remain calm. His whizzing heartbeat was sending blood coursing through his veins. He desperately hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.
“This is Clint, he’s a friend from school,” even as the words escaped his lips, he knew his lie would not be believed.
Geoff’s father knew how to intimidate a boy. He had many years of practice as the headmaster of King Egbert’s Grammar School. If he chose to do so he could reduce the most unruly teenager to jelly. He leaned into the bed, “Get out now! You are going home!”
Terrified by this imposing man, Clint pulled the blankets tight across his chest and tried to hide behind the slender body of his companion.
“But father,” Geoff had never called him dad, “it’s the middle of the night, the buses have stopped running.”
“Pah!” Mr Dawson’s explosion sent shudders through both boys.
“Get out of bed now. At once. This instance,” he directed his anger at Clint.
Relieved that he was now wearing his underpants and his penis was once again soft, Clint rose from the bed, climbed across Geoff, and stood alongside Dawson.
“Here put this on,” he scooped up a shirt discarded earlier in haste on the carpet and thrust it at Clint. “Come here!”
Geoff was transfixed with terror. His father was a strong man and there was no telling what he might do.
Taking Clint by the hair he marched him from the room on to the landing, and still holding a tight grip on the hapless intruder, Mr Dawson opened an airing cupboard and took out two blankets.
Then he trudged Clint down the stairs to the lounge.
“Here take these,” he stabbed the blankets into Clint’s chest. “You are sleeping on the sofa. And don’t you dare leave this house until I have dealt with you in the morning!”
Clint, shivering with more than the cold of the early winter’s morning, watched eyes blazing as the man in the dressing gown, stormed from the room and ascended the stairs two at a time in his determination to sort out his son.
Geoff, who had been standing on the top landing while his father berated his lover, dashed back into bed at the sound of his father’s furious footsteps.
The door burst open once again. Geoff fully expected his father to be brandishing one of his school canes.
“Now tell me what’s going on!” he thundered.
Geoff, although relieved that his backside was spared imminent assault, sat terrified on the bed.
“He … he … he’s a friend from school,” he could hardly get the words out. He was not a dishonest boy by nature and the deception he was playing was tearing him apart.
“He missed his last bus, so he was staying the night,” he trailed off, before adding as an afterthought, “That’s all. Really.”
Then, feeling an urgent need not to lapse into silence, he said, “We were sleeping top to tail.”
His father exploded. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what’s going on.” Mr Dawson was as terrified as his son, but for entirely different reasons.
“I’m not lying. Honestly, I’m not,” tears were welling up in Geoff’s eyes.
His father’s eyes blazed. He was barely in control.
“Do you want me to come over there and inspect the sheets for stains!”
Even as the words left his lips, Mr Dawson despised his own crudity.
Geoff’s breathing hardened. That would be a humiliation too far. He manoeuvred his bottom slightly to move it away from a damp patch.
Mr Dawson, realising he was losing control, stormed towards the door, but he saw Clint’s jeans on the floor, so scooped them up: that would prevent any escape during the night, he thought.
From the door he thundered back at Geoff. “It’s late; I’ll deal with you in the morning!”
Tears flowed freely. “Deal with” him. His father was a headmaster; Geoff knew exactly what “deal with” him meant. King Egbert’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports and traditional discipline.
The next morning Dawson’s anger had not lessened. He followed his usual morning routine and by seven o’clock, showered and shaved and unannounced, he burst through the lounge room door to confront Clint.
The young man had not slept, his mind in turmoil imagining the ordeal that awaited him. He played out every possible scenario and before breakfast time was over he expected to be locked away in a police cell.
“Tell me: who are you?” Dawson barked.
“A friend of Geoff’s. From school.”
“Nonsense,” Dawson had expected the lie. “I saw your ID in your jeans.”
Clint blanched. The truth was out. He could already feel the handcuffs on his wrists.
“You are a civil servant. You’re twenty-six. Nearly twenty-seven,” Dawson’s eyes darkened.
“My son is eighteen years old …” he let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it. But the meaning was clear enough. Clint the older man had seduced his child and had his wicked way with him. The age of consent for homosexuals was twenty-one and Clint was in deep trouble.
The room fell silent. Clint knew it was useless to argue. Dawson would never believe that Geoff had been a more than willing partner. He would not want to know that Geoff had come on to him outside Barnaby’s, a well-known gay haunt in town. And, he certainly would not want to hear that his sweet innocent son Geoffrey was gaining a reputation around Hazeldene as a great lay. He loved to suck cock and he was very good at it.
All of this was left unsaid. Clint had no choice. When the police heard what had happened, he would be the perpetrator, the sex-fiend, the older man who had sexually assaulted a child. He vaguely knew it was statutory rape or something. He was on his way to jail and for a very long time.
“I should call the police!” Dawson still found it impossible to speak at a normal volume. But he made no movement towards the telephone.
Clint stared impassively from beneath his blankets.
It was a bluff. Dawson had no intention of calling the police. He hated this handsome man who had slept with his son, but if the police were involved the events of last night would become a public scandal. It would ruin Geoff’s life and the headmaster would become a laughing stock among the boys at school.
Another course of action was required, and Dawson knew exactly what he wanted to do.
“I should call the police, but I am not entirely sure that is the best solution,” Dawson was starting to sound like the headmaster that he was.
Clint’s sense of relief was pictured in the young man’s bright open face. He was to be spared the law, but he knew this was not yet over.
“Stand up!” It was a command.
Without question, Clint pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the sofa. Dawson eyed the young man up and down. In his time he had seen many naughty boys stand before him, but none were dressed only in a yellow t-shirt and mauve bikini briefs.
“Fold up those blankets. Neatly!” Clint had started to bunch them up but stopped and took care to fold them into four quarters of equal length.
Satisfied at Clint’s obedience, Dawson was ready to move on.
“Stand there, boy!” he pointed to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.
Clint did as instructed.
Dawson lectured the twenty-six-year-old. He was a headmaster of many years’ experience and he had many sermons prepared, suitable for any occasion.
Clint stood motionless, like generations of naughty schoolboys before him staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet the eye of his persecutor.
On and on, Dawson preached. He talked about responsibility, cleanliness and manliness. He told Clint he was irresponsible. He needed to control himself. He needed to set an example.
It was a new sensation for Clint, who sometimes believed he had been around the block a few times. He felt his cock stir as the dressing-down from the powerful, commanding, older man went on and on.
Still staring at his feet, Clint swiftly moved his hands in front of his crotch, hoping the headmaster had not seen his stirrings. The bikini briefs fitted so snuggly nothing could be hidden.
Dawson had not noticed. He did not have the slightest interest in this young man’s private parts; he had a different part of Clint’s anatomy in his sights.
At last, the sermon was over.
Clint had not been expecting what happened next.
Dawson walked through the door and returned within seconds. In his hand was a large school cane. He swished it through the air to demonstrate its whippiness and then he wobbled it in front of Clint’s face.
The teenager had never seen a school cane before. This one was more than three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Close up he could see how the yellow colour deepened at one end. If he had a mind to, he could have counted the ridges along the length of the rattan rod. For some reason that he could not understand, he was transfixed by the cane’s crook handle.
The front of his bikini briefs tightened further.
Dawson had beaten many backsides over the years. He had his own rituals for such occasions. Usually, once he had completed the sermon, he went straight to the action. The boy was ordered to bend over and the thrashing commenced.
That morning was to be no different. Dawson had the arrogance of all headmasters. It did not occur to him that there might be something unusual about the situation he had engineered. He had decided to beat the boy’s backside and the boy’s backside would be beaten.
Clint’s heart was racing. It was obvious where this was leading. The headmaster was going to cane his bottom as if he were one of his thirteen-year-old grammar schoolboys: and Clint wanted him to.
The young man had never been interested in corporal punishment. He knew it turned on some of his friends and he had heard that Geoff was not averse to taking money to go across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. But not Clint. Yet, now, at the point that this older, dominant man was wobbling a cane in his face, he could not wait to show him his arse. He was, quite literally, bursting for it to happen.
Dawson knew none of this. In his world a boy about to be caned awaited his fate with trepidation. Even the boys who made regular trips across the back of his study armchair or desk feared the sting of the rod. No matter how stoical they tried to appear on the outside, inside they were in turmoil.
That was how he imagined Clint was at the moment he barked his order, “Bend over that sofa boy!”
Unnecessarily, since there was only one in the room, he swished the cane in the direction of the sofa.
Clint blushed deep red. Did this middle-aged man really intend to whip him with a school cane?
“Quickly, I have other things to attend to this morning!”
Yes, he did indeed intend to beat his backside, Clint concluded. And, as he walked forward and placed himself face down over the back of the sofa, he conceded, he wanted to let him do it.
This was a new experience for the headmaster. Usually, his target was contained within smart grey flannels: short trousers for the younger boys and long ones for the seniors. Very occasionally the trousers would be bunched at the boy’s ankles and he was offered buttocks enclosed in tight white underpants.
This was the first time Dawson had whipped his cane into mauve bikini briefs.
“Legs further apart, boy. Keep your head low down in the cushion!”
Dawson noticed for the first time that Clint’s body was muscular and gym-honed. Stretched as they were across the sofa, his buttocks appeared to be completely devoid of fat: they were buns of steel. The briefs hardly covered the young man’s cheeks and Dawson could see they were completely hairless, as were his legs.
Dawson saw all this, but was not interested in the boy’s beauty. Dawson had a duty to perform and he was going to do it.
A cane had never been close to Clint’s buttocks before and nor had any other instrument of corporal punishment. Now, his buttocks were offered up to this older, powerful man to do with as he wished. Clint had offered his arse up before, sometimes to a complete stranger, but Dawson had no desire to part Clint’s cheeks and enter him. He wanted to rip them to shreds. And he did.
He had never thrashed a boy so savagely in his entire career in school-mastering. The bikini briefs were useless. Within seconds twelve deep red lines criss-crossed his arse cheeks. Clint howled as the first cut bit deep into his muscular arse and he did not stop yelling and screaming until long after the headmaster laid down his cane.
Upstairs, in his bedroom Geoff buried his head under the bedclothes, unsuccessfully trying to hide away from the events taking place in the lounge. Clint was being put through it. And in a few moments, it would be Geoff’s turn.
At school, once a thrashing was over, another of the rituals took place. Ceremoniously, an entry would be written in the punishment book, the beaten boy would sign his name, and with that done, he would be dismissed, often still in great distress, from the study.
There was no punishment book to be signed this time, but the headmaster wanted the boy out of his sight and out of his house quickly.
Leaving Clint still jumping up and down on the spot trying fruitlessly to rub away the agony from his throbbing bottom, Dawson went to his own bedroom to fetch the man’s jeans. Then he burst into Geoff’s room (he was incapable ever of entering his son’s room quietly) and gathered up the rest of Clint’s clothes.
“I want you dressed and in my study in five minutes,” it was a stern command.
When Dawson reappeared downstairs, Clint had regained some of his composure. His face glistened with tears, but he had wiped most of the snot from his face. His was breathing more evenly and his heart rate had reduced nearly to normal.
“Get dressed,” Dawson threw the clothes on the floor. “Get out of my house!”
Clint did not need to be told a second time. He was through the front door inside a minute. The ache in his arse was intense as he hobbled down the street towards the bus stop. He was grateful the bus driver did not ask why he was standing when so many empty seats were available.
Mr Dawson’s study at home was nothing like the one at St Edgar’s Grammar School. That was wood panelled with a huge oak desk and padded armchairs. His study at home was more modest; it was a spare bedroom with a modern metal desk and a low-backed bucket chair. It was a small room, but quite large enough for Mr Dawson to swing his cane.
Geoff was quick out of bed on his father’s order. He was in enough trouble over last night he did not want to compound that by disobeying his father.
Although it was Saturday, Geoff still had to be at school. He did not attend the grammar school where his father was headmaster. He had won a scholarship to the much grander The Academy, a private school. He was a “day boy” although most of the pupils were boarders. Geoff resented that he had to return home to his parents at the end of each day: the opportunities for sex at night with the boarders must be awesome, he imagined.
In readiness for the classes he would attend later, Geoff began to dress himself in his school uniform. He was buttoning up his grey shirt when he was struck by an idea. Until two years previously when he entered the sixth-form at The Academy he was obliged to wear short trousers. He still had them tucked away in a drawer. If he presented himself to his father dressed in them it might convince him that Geoff was a sweet innocent child who was led astray by an older man.
He stepped into the grey flannel short trousers and pulled them up. He had to wriggle a little to get the waistband button to fasten, but they still fitted him, if a little snugly. He admired his reflection in the mirror: he saw a shortish, blond-haired boy with an arse to die for. He should wear these short trousers one night at The Village, the old queens would blow their fuses, he thought.
Minutes later he was stood contrite in his father’s study. The headmaster was well into his prepared sermon; but it was not the same one he had inflicted on Clint.
“How long have you had these feelings?” he intoned.
Geoff blushed and kept his eyes downcast at the carpet. “Dunno.”
“There are some things you might not quite understand. This friendship you have with Clint,” he said. “It is not, it cannot be a good thing. Do you understand?”
Geoff’s embarrassment was mounting. What was his father talking about?
“Yes, father,” he mumbled, realising that the question had not been rhetorical.
“Feelings such as these are often a by-product of growing up. That is not to say they are not wrong. You are going through a phase, but this is a serious matter and it must be nipped in the bud. Six strokes of the cane, I think should sort you out. You understand don’t you Geoffrey?”
Geoff clenched his jaws tight to stop them gaping. His father’s naivety left him gasping. Did he really believe what he was saying? Perhaps his father was not after all the font of all knowledge, Geoff had supposed him to be.
When instructed, Geoff bent himself over the low bucket chair. He could feel the seat of his short trousers tighten further; his buttocks making the perfect target for his father’s cane.
He scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and clenched his cheeks in anticipation of the terrible pain to come.
His father was not quite ready. Many headmasters are drama queens and he was no exception. To heighten the tension, Dawson took the tail of the boy’s grey shirt and tugged at it until it was clear of the trousers and part way up the boy’s back. It was a freezing morning and Geoff shuddered as cold air connected with his bare skin.
He heard the swish, swish, of the cane as his father took up his position and found his aim.
Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another. Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Geoff. He rose from the chair, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. His father pointed to the door.
“You may go!” he said harshly.
And in silence, Geoff went.
That evening Clint lay on his bed. Downstairs his mother and father were engrossed in a soap opera on the television. In his mind, Clint played out his own drama. He was in the headmaster’s study at St Edgars’s School. In front of him stood Mr Dawson, dressed in a formal academic gown with a mortar-board cap on his head. In his hand he flexed a stout, but very supple, crook-handled cane.
He has been caught wanking with other boys behind the bike sheds. The headmaster berates him for his wickedness. He is a dirty, dirty, little boy, Dawson scolds wobbling his cane in Clint’s face.
And, we all know what happens to dirty little boys who cannot keep their hands to themselves, the headmaster preaches.
Clint is wearing a distinctive green and yellow school blazer and his even more distinctive grey short trousers are in a puddle at his feet. On the headmaster’s command, Clint bends over and touches his toes.
Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!
The headmaster lays on the cane with all the strength of his arm, which is considerable. Six terrible swipes bring a succession of fearful yells from Clint.
At about the same time Clint reached for a fistful of tissues, Geoff was also at home, on his own bed.
Certain that the coast was clear and he would not be disturbed, he flicked with some melancholy through a porn magazine. He wanted to be in The Village, parading outside of Barnaby’s in his short trousers. For now, it would have to remain a fantasy. He needed to be careful for a while, now his father knew his secrets.
He wriggled a little. The six deep welts across his buttocks were still tender to the touch. He made himself comfortable and unzipped the front of his jeans.
Downstairs in the kitchen his father stared forlornly through the window into the darkened garden beyond.
Other father and son stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second