My first spanking — aged 18!

paddle free paddle 2

I had just turned eighteen when my granddad took me across his knee to give me my first-ever spanking. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two.

I had been living with him and gran for a few months by then and I had driven the pair of them to distraction.

I left school when I was sixteen and worked in a record shop. It was a great job which paid well (for a teenager anyway) and I had lots of money to spend on clothes and other things for myself. I lived at home and gave my mum some money for my keep and lived a selfish life.

Then my dad lost his job when the company he worked for went bust and he had to move to a town 100 miles away. Naturally, the family went with him, but I didn’t want to give up the record shop. I didn’t want to give up the home comforts, either. On my wages I would be able to rent a room somewhere, but I wouldn’t be able to afford all the new clothes and luxuries as well.

Gran and granddad didn’t want me to live with them and who could blame them. Their own kids had grown up, left home and started families. Now, it was time for gran and granddad to have a little peace and quiet: they definitely didn’t need an unruly teenager living with them.

Anyway, they took me in (the emotional blackmail that families are famous for probably had a hand in it).

I was happy; I just carried on as I had done at home. I came and went as I wanted to; I was surly and uncommunicative to my hosts and sometimes just downright rude. I made a habit of coming home in the early hours of the morning and staying in bed late. I didn’t lift a finger to help around the house and didn’t think it wrong for gran to wait on me hand and foot.

Granddad tried to get me to see sense more than once, but he was up against one of the rudest self-absorbed and selfish people he had ever met. He tried to talk to me about coming home late drunk and spending all the next day in bed, but I was not to be reasoned with.

I had always been rude to both of them, but the straw that broke granddad’s back was when I gave gran a lot of back-chat. I forget what the row was about, but gran had recently started using a hearing aid, so when in the middle of an argument, I shouted, “Are you daft as well as deaf?” she ran from the room in tears.

Granddad had no choice. Of course, he couldn’t let me get away with treating his wife like that. If I had been granddad I’d have taken me across my knee and spanked my backside good and hard as well.

So, that’s how I ended up in the sitting room, standing in front of my granddad getting a verbal roasting, prior to getting my buttocks toasted.

Looking back after all these years, I can now see gran and granddad loved me. Why else would they have let me live with them in the first place. They also wanted me to grow up to be a good person, hardworking, kind and considerate. I was none of these things: I liked to think I was a full-grown adult, but my grandparents knew I wasn’t quite there yet. Sometimes, and recently far too often, I had behaved like a spoilt little child and I needed to be taught a lesson.

Granddad could have thrown me out on my ear. He even told me I was eighteen years old now and it was high time I stood on my own two feet. But, he said, he was prepared to give me one last chance.

I hadn’t been expecting it when he leaned over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and pulled out a small shiny wooden object. He gripped it in his right hand and waved it in my direction. It was light brown and oblong (maybe eight inches by thee and half and three-quarters of an inch thick). It had a small shaped handle to hold it by. As he threatened me with it, I could see it had six neat holes drilled into it. It was a purpose-built spanking paddle.

I probably blanched at the point, because he looked me in the eye and said, “You need to be taken down a peg or two.”

I’d never heard the phrase before, but I immediately knew what he meant. He was going to use that paddle on my backside.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of, “You can’t do that, I’m too old to be spanked.” What I didn’t say (and should have done) was “I’m sorry. I’ll be a better person in the future.”

Granddad was not impressed. “Too old! You are not too old to move out and live on your own. You can pack your bags and go.”

He meant it too. He had tried his level best with me over the months and I had thrown all his kindness and hospitality back in his face. And, to top it all, I had been rude and incredibly cruel to gran. Who would blame them for throwing me out?

“Or,” he said, and this is where I now realise how much he loved me, “I will take this to your backside and see if I can beat some manners into you.” He waved the paddle at me in case I hadn’t followed his drift.

I stood dumbfounded. I was eighteen years old, an adult, I had been working for nearly two years and here was my granddad telling me he was going to spank me like I was an eight-year-old kid. And, to top it all, I had no choice but to let him do it.

He pulled a chair away from the dining table and set it down in the middle of the carpet. There was a three piece suite, a sideboard, the table and four chairs and a TV set crammed into the small room.

He sat down on the chair, keeping his own back straight and planting his feet three feet apart. Just because he was my granddad don’t go away with the idea that he was a shrivelled old man. He would have still been in his fifties at the time and was big and strong. He had been a manual worker all his life and after a spell in the Army, he continued to make regular visits to the gym.

I looked at him as I contemplated my fate. He was a thick-set muscular man. He was clean shaven, but much of his body was covered in hair. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and a clump of thick black hair poked through. For the first time in my life I noticed his biceps were well-developed and his hands were the size of shovels. He would pack one hell of a wallop when the time came.

The legs over which I would soon find myself draped were powerful and from where I was standing looked to be as thick as tree trunks.

My breathing became irregular as my heart raced and my blood pressure went sky high. I could feel my temples pounding as I began to realise just what damage granddad could do to my rear end with his paddle.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot right in front of him. As if in a trance, I obeyed. “Hands on head.” I obeyed that command too.

He reached over to the waistband of my trousers. In those days we wore trousers with ridiculously high waistbands. They were those ones that had about twenty-four inch flares to the legs and we wore them with platform-soled shoes that added an extra three inches to your height.

Despite all the material, they were cut tight across the buttocks area and if, like me, you had a flat stomach they showed off your bum to perfection. I was presenting to my granddad a bottom that was crying out to be spanked.

I knew I had a great bum, one of the girls I knew was always telling me so. I didn’t fancy her at all, she was chubby and reminded me a bit of a younger version of the district nurse character who appeared in one of the TV comedy shows of the time.

I was very inexperienced and naïve at the time and I didn’t understand what the girl was offering me. It was a wasted opportunity: it’s true that I didn’t lust after her, but she would have been something for me to practice on.

Granddad had trouble undoing all five buttons on my waistband, but eventually the job was done. It was easier for him to pull at the zipper at my fly and open up the front of my trousers to reveal my tight multi-coloured mini briefs.

He slipped the trousers over my bony hips and down my slim thighs until they fell in a heap on the floor at my feet.

Granddad paused. He seemed to be debating with himself about what to do next. The decision reached, he took hold of the elastic waist of my garish mini-briefs and gently pulled them down over my trim buttocks until they settled at my knees. I still had my hands on my head so the old man had every opportunity to observe that I was indeed a fully grown man and not a small boy.

I was kept standing with my trousers and pants down and my penis flopping for what seemed like hours, but I don’t suppose it was more than a minute. During that time I thought I heard voices coming from the flat next door. Absurdly, I realised the family next door would be able to hear me being spanked and that embarrassed me much more than my present predicament; standing naked from the waist down in front of my granddad.

“Come here and bend across my knee.” It was a quiet instruction, not a barked order. Once again, granddad was showing me that he loved me.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never been across someone’s knee before and I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. I took my hands from my head and turned to face granddad from the side. Looking down I could see the massive expanse of grey flannel trousers encasing his legs. Slowly, I lowered my body, first reaching out my hands so they held onto his left knee so I could then cautiously let my stomach rest across his huge thighs. Then, it was a simple matter to stretch my arms out in front of me so the palms of my hands sank into the pile of the carpet.

In this position, my legs were straight behind me, bent a little at the knees and my toes just about touched the carpet. My bared bottom lay across the centre of my granddad’s laps.

I was completely humiliated, bent across granddad’s knee offering him my naked buttocks. I knew he could see right into my crack. But, I wasn’t positioned to granddad’s satisfaction. His strength surprised me as he was able to place his arm round my middle and lift me to manoeuvre my body an inch this way and another inch that way until he had my bum just where he wanted it to receive the spanks from his paddle.

But, he wasn’t quite ready to start. As I stared into the fading pattern of the carpet: it was a dirty grey now, but had once, I think, been green, I could feel him grab the tail of my shirt and pull it up my back until it rested just below the shoulders.

There I was an eighteen-year-old man submissively bent across his granddad’s knee, trousers and underpants at his feet, shirt at the shoulders and naked between the two points. My bared backside was resting over his right thigh, pointing up at a forty-five degree angle and twitching a little in anticipation of the onslaught to come. Granddad was gripping the square black spanking paddle so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

I remember feeling the cool wood of the paddle rest on my right buttock cheek and then without warning granddad whacked it down with maximum force; again and again and again. First on one cheek, then on the other, then right in the middle across both buttocks at once.

Then he went high, then low, high, high, low, low. Then on the crease where the bum meets the thigh, then right in the middle of my globes. On and on and on.

I howled from the very first smack and didn’t stop yelling and screaming until what seemed like half an hour (but I later discovered was closer to five minutes) he finally laid down the paddle and released me. I struggled this way and that, pounding my feet and kicking my legs about. I was astonished by my granddad’s strength: he wrapped his left arm around my middle, pinning my body to his lap while with his right hand he continued to assault my bared backside with the paddle.

I tried to reach my arm back to protect my bum from the searing slashes of the wood, but granddad had me so effectively pinned facedown that I could do nothing except flail my arms and legs about, as if I were trying to swim doggy-paddle style.

Granddad kept whacking into me. He beat at a rhythm: I was in too much agony to keep count, but it must have been about forty swats to the minute. Later I would see that dark blue bruises covered the whole of my buttock area and my inner and outer thighs. I had so little meat on my bum there was not enough padding to absorb the shockwaves from the wooden paddle.

There was no sound in the small room apart from the whack! whack! whack! of the paddle hitting my bum and my howls of agony. Not a word was exchanged between granddad and me. He gave me no sermons on changing my behaviour and I in turn made no pleas for mercy.

I wailed so much I was choking and breathing became difficult. My heartbeat was racing and I thought at any moment I would pass out. But on and one, granddad spanked me: calmly and methodically: he knew his duty was to reform me and this was how he would do it.

Satisfied that he had made a sufficient impression on me and my bum, granddad stopped the spanking. I was exhausted: the pain had started at my roasted buttocks and travelled at high speed across my whole body: my chest ached and my head throbbed almost as much as my bum.

“Get up son.” I think this was the first time granddad had ever called me son: could that be true, or am I after all these years being sentimental?

He released me and I was able to pull myself off his legs. Just as I had done so when presenting myself for the spanking, I rested my hands on his knee, but this time rather than lowering myself into a face-down position, I hauled myself up to my feet.

I couldn’t help it, but I found myself jumping up and down on the spot performing some crazy spanking dance. These days commentators in football matches on TV often say that a player who has been injured can “run off” the pain. Believe me it certainly didn’t work for me after granddad’s spanking.

Nor, did rubbing away at my toasted buttocks with my hands. Actually, contact with the by now raw nerves in my pert bottom only increased the pain.

I bent double, gasping for breath, trying to regain some composure. Tears and snot poured down my face and chin. I rubbed myself clean with the sleeve of my shirt only to find more tears and snot falling.

I actually howled in agony again when I tried to pull up my tight mini briefs. They were designed to fit snuggly against my bottom and they had the same effect on my pain level as my hands had earlier. Quickly I pulled them down and off and stood semi-naked not sure what to do next.

“Pick up your trousers and pants and go to your room.” It was the obvious solution. So, I rushed from the living room and dashed up the stairs two at a time with my naked blistered buttocks on full display. Thankfully my gran was not around to witness this.

I didn’t know at the time that she had been in the kitchen during my spanking, fully aware or what granddad was doing to me (and fully supportive that he should do so). She could have witnessed my spanking herself, but she loved me too much to make me endure that additional humiliation.

Once in my bedroom, I was able to inspect the full horror of the damage caused to my buttocks. The bruises were deep and as I twisted my body this way and that in order to get a good view in the mirror I detected what looked like dozens of squares branded into the flesh. It would take a couple of weeks before the bruises finally cleared.

The pain mostly cleared in a matter of hours, but some parts of my lower bottom and thighs remained tender for days; so that when I sat on the shop assistant’s high stool at the cash desk in the record shop I was reminded of the humiliation granddad had put me through.

I’d like to be able to report that my behaviour changed after that spanking and I became a model citizen. But “attitude adjustment” doesn’t work like that. Behaviour modification is incremental; it changes one step at a time and so although this was the first spanking I had ever received, it did not turn out to be the last.


Other stories you might like.

Two brothers

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The student’s first caning

“Go and stand by that chair,” the professor instructed the boy as he strode to a desk.

The student stood his ground, apprehensively watching as the professor pulled open a drawer and began to fish inside. In no time he pulled out a well-waxed cane and turned to the boy.

“I said stand by the chair boy!” The professor was in a bad mood.

The pale-faced student stuttered, “Can’t we talk about this Sir?” ….


Another story from Charles Hamilton II published exclusively on The Canery – read it here

My beligerent nephew


used cane

I dashed upstairs to the bedroom and, having decided on the appropriate instrument of punishment, fought through the clothes hanging on the rail to find the old, slim, lighter junior cane with its traditional crook handle which had lain unused for several years.

This would do the job very well, I knew and I flexed the rod between my hands. I have many canes, all of varying lengths and thicknesses. Some could inflict the severest damage to a naughty boy’s behind. This was not one of my fiercest: it would deliver a sting and would leave my nephew with a sore behind, which was my intention, but as this was to be his first-ever caning, it would not be right to rip his bum to shreds.

Satisfied with my choice, I slowly descended the stairs and returned to the sitting room where I had left Stanley, my belligerent eighteen-year-old nephew. I half expected that he would have run from the house while I was on my errand fetching the cane, but he had not. Perhaps, he had resigned himself to his fate.

Stanley was the son of my youngest brother Jack. Jack was working abroad for a year and had left him in my care. The boy only had a matter of months left at school before his examinations and he agreed it was sensible that he did not travel with his family.

I suspect that he might have regretted that choice. I am very different from Jack; where he is easy going with his children, I am not with mine. If you were to ask me I’d say his kids run wild, they are lazy, selfish and have no respect for others. My children are virtuous and kind, they respect authority and are hard working. In short, Jack’s children are ill disciplined and mine are not. And, the reason for that lay in my hands: the cane.

Stanley got off to a bad start with me: he had no concept of curfew, nor did he consider it his job to do chores around the house. So, he came home at all hours of the night as he chose and the vacuum cleaner never left its moorings in the cupboard under the stairs.

I tried to put a stop to this by imposing the exact rules that had worked so well with my own children. Homework completed by nine o’clock each night. He must be home no later than ten and all chores were to be done to a set timetable.

Stanley seemed pathologically incapable of sticking to rules. I did wonder if he got some excitement from defying me. I knew all about teenage rebellion. I had seen it with my own boys, but a few strokes with one of my stoutest canes soon put a stop to that.

I had ample evidence that caning boys worked. It had succeeded with my own children and it would work with Stanley. One night I sat him down and went through with him all the rules one more time. He knew them already, but I had devised a plan and I wanted to make certain he was in no doubt about what was expected from him.

“If you obey the rules, nothing will happen, but if you break any of them from now on I shall cane you on your bare bottom.” I wanted him to understand he had crossed an important line. The caning wasn’t only a means of delivering an especially severe spanking; it was a symbol of my anger and disappointment.

Stanley who had deceptively cherubic looks rolled his eyes in distain when I announced this and shook his head making his thick curly (and too long) black hair lash about; but mostly he stayed silent. I saw immediately from his body language that he was unwilling to accept this news, but he did not argue the point with me.

“Do you understand what I have just said,” I felt we were entering into a formal contract and I wanted to hear him at least acknowledge the fact.

“Do you?” I asked again and received a sneered “Yeah” for my troubles. He left the room almost immediately and I thought I heard him say “Fuck you” under his breath. I knew I had not heard the last of this.

I was not the least surprised when two days later – it was a Saturday evening – he failed to meet his 10 pm curfew.

He rolled in at close to midnight and ‘rolled’ in this case is an appropriate word. He had obviously been drinking and seemed to me to be the worst for it. I admonished him for missing his curfew and sent him to bed with the words, “As I said I should, tomorrow I shall cane you on your bare bottom,” ringing in his ears. He now knew he could expect a severe beating for his disgraceful behaviour and could spend the rest of the night anticipating his first encounter with the cane.

And that was how he came to be standing in the sitting room that morning with me brandishing a thin ‘junior’ rattan cane.

“Do you know what that is, young man?”

“It’s a, it’s… a cane,” Stanley finally whispered.

“What did I say would happen if you did not obey the rules?” It sounded like a rhetorical question, but it was not. I wanted the lout to acknowledge his wrong-doing.

After much hesitation, he replied, “You said you’d cane me.”

“I said I would cane you on your bare bottom and that is precisely what I shall do.”

For the first time Stanley’s arrogance and self-confidence crumpled. Ashen faced, he gazed plaintively at me, opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately silenced by my penetrating gaze of authority.

I spoke to him plainly and recounted the many times he deliberately, wilfully, disobeyed the rules. He listened to my lecture with downcast eyes. He knew he’d done wrong, and he knew he was going to be punished for it.

“I’ve always said there’s a direct link between a boy’s brain and his bottom and what won’t sink in through one end can be drummed through the other. I can see you father hasn’t been drumming you hard enough. I’m going to make up for that today.”

He stood in front of me as I explained why he was to get a caning. Then I told him to turn around and drop his trousers and pants. I think that’s a critical step, because then a boy is effectively participating in his own beating, silently presenting his backside for punishment.

I’m sure like most boys, especially older ones, he would hate the cane, not only because of its searing pain but also because it breaks through his defences, makes him forget he’s a tough teenager and causes him to revert to being a little boy, heaving under an adult’s hand, wailing in remorse, letting the flood of tears wash over him.

Stanley stood his ground. I had expected a fight, and was prepared if the need arose to force him over the dining room table and lash into his backside as best I could.

I repeated, “Take down your trousers and underpants. Do it immediately or I shall do it for you myself. If you make me do that, believe me I shall thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

He must have believed I could fulfil my threat as with fumbling hands he undid the belt to his jeans. Then he popped the rivet at his lean, bony waist, pulled his zipper and lowered them to his knees. Then, with what I thought was a defiant gesture, he placed this thumbs inside the waistband of his pants and with a swift flick sent them travelling across his slim hips towards his jeans. Modestly he placed his hands in front of him to shield his cock and balls from my sight.

“Bend over that table,” I flicked my cane to emphasis my order. I understand how difficult it is for a strong-willed boy to submit to a caning rather than fight it, but I couldn’t afford to leave him any option other than to submit. The table was ideal for young men to position themselves across for a caning. Its surface was hard and cold and it offered none of the comfort of the back of the settee. Stanley would be required to take a firm grip on its hard edges to retain the correct position for a severe caning, and the teenager’s legs would need to be kept very straight and well parted throughout the entire caning.

Stanley stared at the table, unable to look at me, for what seemed an age. I could see he was steeling himself for the ordeal that was to come. Eventually he found the fortitude to lean forward across the table, his bottom pointing upwards towards me. His height and the small table made the position uncomfortable. He put his right ear on the table, then after a moment turned and put the left one on it. A little later he rested his chin on the top and sighed, while no doubt looking about as best he could.

“Bend forward. Nose to the table.” He shuffled a little until his bottom was offered up sufficiently well for me to administer his thrashing.

A rounded and vulnerable bottom was on display and waiting to be caned. I intended to teach this naughty boy and his backside a lesson they would remember. He really had a big ‘bubble butt,’ one that seemed to beg for a caning.

As Stanley’s bum was exposed sufficiently, there was no need for me to step forward and fold back his shirt; but I did it anyway. His body was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles.

He was now submissive, in position to allow me to thrash him any way I wished. I could not resist adding to his humiliation. “I don’t go easy on first timers. You will learn what a proper caning is like so that you won’t be tempted to break the rules again. You may howl as much as you like but if you stand up or move out of position, you will get two extra strokes each time.”

I didn’t expect a reply and didn’t get one. I took up my position. I do not go in for flexing and swishing before a punishment, for that is unnecessary mental torture. I silently took aim, without touching or tapping the target, then lifted high, and swung rather like a golfer, with a lot of waist movement, bringing the cane down across the middle of Stanley’s bottom. The rod drew a vivid stripe across the bare cheeks. I hoped the pain was hideous.

Stanley cried out between gritted teeth. His back arched, his eyes closed and his face screwed up in agony as he felt the effect of that first blow.

I couldn’t help but give a sermon. “This is not, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, supposed to be a pleasant experience. It is supposed to be horrible and unendurable, the kind of thing you would want to go out of your way to avoid in future.”

I was delighted with the first stroke: a good stripe is one that fully covers both of the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting and I felt I had achieved this and I intending to repeat the success. I took up position again to the boy’s left, lined up the cane, lifted it back high over my shoulder and then I let loose. God that crack, how did he manage to hold position? The line was white at first then quickly turned red. Now, he had two red lines in parallel. He moved slightly, his chest was heaving and he wriggled his bottom.

I waited for perhaps thirty seconds to let the pain travel from my nephew’s buttocks through the entire length of his body. Then I tapped Stanley’s bottom this time just below the second stroke before methodically taking the cane right back and bringing it back down with great speed to strike exactly where I had wanted – half an inch below that second stripe. Stanley gasped as the third line of undiluted pain penetrated all the nerve ends in his trim bottom and his feet drummed against the floor.

Soon the eighteen-year-old lout had six very prominent welts, turning blue/black. The agony must have been spreading throughout his body, blinding him to all else.

I had not announced to Stanley how many strokes I had intended to deliver. It is, I suppose, traditional to inflict six-of-the-best in such circumstances. I could clearly see that the six strokes I had lashed down into his bared buttocks so far had a considerable effect on the boy. He was crying uncontrollably, sobbing, and shaking.

However, his offences had been many and some grave. I could not be sure that six strokes would be sufficient to drive home to him the enormity of his crimes, and more to the point, to ensure perfect behaviour from this day forward.

Since this was Stanley’s first-ever caning I supposed that he had never before in his life imagined such pain, but was this experience enough for him to resolve never to undergo it again?

I could not be certain, so I resolved to carry on for the full dozen. I drew back and three strokes thumped low down into his bum in rapid succession. I knew that these low strokes would be felt every time the boy sat down for days serving as a constant reminder not to disobey me.

I landed number ten higher up, before changing my stance and lashing number eleven across the full swell of his bottom, cutting across several earlier welts. Stanley roared and his bottom gyrated as he took this hardest stroke yet. Number twelve was delivered again in a diagonal stripe; this time from the opposite corner ensuring his buttocks resembled a hot cross bun pattern.

“That will do, I hope you have learned your lesson,” I said, meaning that the thrashing had concluded. Stanley did not move. He was in great distress and I supposed he had not heard me, or perhaps had not fully understood the importance of my words.

I tried again, “You can stand up when you are ready.”

Still he made no effort to get up. He must have been so sore that he didn’t want to (or couldn’t) move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day. Do you want me to cane you some more?”

That last threat did the trick and Stanley, utterly defeated, hauled himself to his feet and began rubbing his glowing backside and the swelling of each weal.

Once more I scolded him about his disobedience and attitude. He promised to be very, very good the way that most freshly caned boys will promise just about anything. Without asking my permission (but I let that go this time) he bent down and in obvious agony pulled up first his cotton briefs and then his denim jeans over his toasted bottom. He was still shaking from the force of his thrashing and I thought it best to dismiss him instantly. He didn’t need telling twice and he dashed from the room and hurtled up the stairs to his bedroom to inspect his tenderised rump.

Thinking about it later, I thought the caning worked very well. My nephew had demonstrated self-control and submission to my authority by allowing me to thrash his naked bottom. I could see there was hope for him yet. He had promised to obey me in future, now we would see if he was able to keep that promise.


Other caning stories you might like.

The military camp

A maintenance spanking

The old boys


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


My friend Justin

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Other stories you might like.

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

In the farmhouse

 Father deals with idle student


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



The sting in the tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.


“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”


Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.


“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.


Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.


Other university stories you might like.

Professor Paddle

The Senior Tutor

The university major


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


High school reunion

paddle free paddle 3

When I first heard about the 10th anniversary reunion at my old High School I wasn’t interested, until I remembered Mr Sorensen and his goddam paddle.

Things went well for me after I graduated. I went to college and qualified as a plumber and worked at that for a couple of years until I got bored. Then I went in to the Military: that was good, I travelled to places I’d never have seen and made some good buddies.

I found it hard after the Army and I’ve drifted from job to job since. I don’t seem to be able to settle down much. I had a good relationship, but that broke up because I was told I was no good at “commitment.”

I was drinking in a bar when I saw a story about the reunion in the local newspaper. It didn’t make much impression on me; I just assumed I wouldn’t go. What was the point? I’d drifted away from most of my High School graduation classmates; people do, don’t they. I kept in touch until I went to the Army and after that I hadn’t bothered.

I had a few more beers and went back to my rented room. I found it hard to get to sleep and it wasn’t only because of the beer. In my mind I kept going over my schooldays, and particularly I couldn’t get a certain Mr Sorensen, the English Lit teacher, out of my head.

My High School was a tough place to be. We were blue-collar kids, from mostly poor families. Nobody at home was much interested in education, and certainly not English Lit, and everyone – students and their parents – were just itching for the day they could leave school and get a job.

We were a restless bunch, especially as we got older and reckoned school had nothing to offer.

Mr Sorensen was one of a kind. You stepped out of line with him and you got your butt blistered with the paddle: period. I guess he must have paddled four or five of us every day. If you didn’t do your assignments it would be over the desk for three swats. Inattention in class; two swats: late for class; two swats. There seemed to be swats for everything. He was particularly hard on kids he thought were “punks.” To him a punk was the loud-mouthed, disobedient student who wouldn’t be told anything.

He was always willing to help out the women teachers; they had the worst time with the punks. But, the punks calmed down once they realised that the ladies would send them to Mr Sorensen to kiss the top of his desk.

He would often paddle a boy in front of the class. It was more humiliating for the student to have his classmates looking on during the punishment and it also encouraged the others in good behaviour: you knew if you stepped out of line and it would be your turn next.

A typical class would start with collection of or handing back of assignments. That was a dangerous time; kids who didn’t hand in or who had done badly were asked to stand. There would always be at least one boy, and usually more than one, on his feet. If you hadn’t handed in and didn’t have a legitimate excuse you were done for. If you had scored less than a C+ your butt belonged to Mr Sorensen.

The guys were lined up against the wall, facing the class. Then Mr Sorensen would get the “Attitude Adjuster” board from his desk. It was a typical paddle, just like all the others used in schools, I guess. It was maybe twelve or fourteen inches long, by three wide; shaped in an oblong. It had smoothed down sides and a handle to grip it by.

Each boy in turn was ordered to stand forward to be told, “Assume the position.” To a lot of kids from other schools, “Assume the position” meant bend down and grab your ankles, but in Mr Sorensen’s class it mean go to the teacher’s desk and lay across it, so that your chest and stomach connected with the desk top.

We called it “kissing the desk” but no one literally did that. Once they bent over, kids were never sure where to put their arms. The solution depended on how tall you were, I think. Shorter kids folded their arms and buried their faces in them. The taller ones could reach out and hold on to the legs of the desk.

If we were wearing a jacket, Mr Sorensen would take the tail end and fold it up our back, then he’d grab the waistband of our pants and tug it hard so there was nothing much between the pants and our asses for protection. If we had no jacket, he would go straight to the pants yanking. Then, without a word, pop, pop, pop, he’d whack the paddle into the seat of your pants.

“Stand up,” he would command. “Next boy.”

Then, as the first boy rose from the desk, desperately wanting to rub the agony out of his butt cheeks, but not daring to admit to the teacher or his classmates he was hurting, the next boy in line would assume the position.

This went on until all the boys had blistered butts and then the lesson would begin.

Mr Sorensen swung the paddle a mighty lot, but I don’t remember anyone getting swats who didn’t deserve it. We knew the rules; if we kept to them our butts were safe. But if we broke the rules, then what did we expect?

I got swats so many times, I can’t remember them all. But, I have to admit, without the threat of an ass whipping, I would never have done any work. The fact I graduated at all was down to the Attitude Adjuster.

The worst paddling I got from Mr Sorensen had nothing to do with the quality of my schoolwork. By the time I was eighteen, I was getting out of control. My mom and dad couldn’t handle me and I was spending a lot of time on the streets with friends. Sometimes I wouldn’t get home until the early hours and oftentimes, I’d be drunk.

One day the strangest thing happened. I was staggering home drunk early one Sunday morning and I was so far gone I stepped into the road in front of an oncoming car. Thank the Lord the driver wasn’t as drunk as I was and he swerved to avoid hitting me. There was no traffic, so no damage was done, at least not to the car, but the driver’s nerves were shattered.

I swore at the driver, as if it was the poor man’s fault. As I staggered on I heard the distinct voice of Mr Sorensen. Blearily, I turned round, to see his head poking through the open driver’s window. Boy, was he mad.

He drove me safely home. On Monday after school I found myself facing him in the classroom. I’d expected him to be mad, to tell me I was a punk and then to paddle my ass raw. In fact, only one of these things happened.

I knew this was not going to go as expected when he invited me to sit down. This wasn’t going to be a lecture; this was going to be a conversation. He asked me about my life, what I did in my spare time and who my friends were. Nobody had ever asked me these questions before. Mom and dad always complained about my friends and what I got up to, but they never asked me “why” I did things.

Looking back, I think I was just waiting for someone to ask: I told him everything. To be honest, my life wasn’t very different to those of my classmates; but some of them were coping a lot better than I was.

We talked a lot and Mr Sorensen said I needed help to identify my “priorities” and to set myself “objectives.” At first, it sounded like bullshit, but as he detailed the kinds of things I should think about; such as what job I wanted to do when I left school; what I needed to do to qualify for it and so on, he began to make a lot of sense.

He also said I needed “encouragement” to meet these objectives. I needed praise when I achieved something, but also punishment when I failed. The way he put it, it seemed so clear cut. He told me to go away and make a list of priorities and objectives and take them to him and he would guide me in the appropriate way.

I readily agreed.

But, before our meeting was over, we still had to deal with my drunken misbehaviour. I had expected this and was ready to take my paddling. I had screwed up, I could have been killed, and heck, if there had been more traffic on the road, I might have killed Mr Sorensen too.

I assumed the position submissively: Mr Sorensen was entitled to do whatever he felt fit with my ass.

I hadn’t expected the ferocity of the attack; Mr Sorensen was like a demon possessed. This wasn’t just a pop, pop, pop, paddling; this was a full scale attack on my butt. The agony was so great I lost control of my senses: how many swats did I survive? I think it was ten, it might have been more.

I howled, like I had never screamed before. I was glad my classmates were not there to see me, but my yells were so loud, anyone still anywhere in the school building would have heard my pitiful shrieks.

At the finish I was breathless, and so was Mr Sorensen. His commitment to spanking me with that paddle was total. Still face down across the desk, I buried my head in my arms and sobbed and sobbed. After a few minutes, I was calming down a little, but my ass was burning, the pain was searing, I had never felt such agony in my life. Had he attacked me with a paddle or a hot iron?

I remember he stroked my hair, before giving me permission to stand up. I got to my feet and stumbled, but Mr Sorensen caught me before I fell.

Once I had composed myself I was allowed to leave. Later at home I pulled my pants down and looked in the mirror at my ass. Each bun was scarlet with a spot of purple in the middle. He really had blistered me. There were lines where the edge of the paddle had hit and I could tell I had had my ass properly paddled. It was the next day before I could sit down easily. My whole rump turned a lovely shade of black and blue and it was more than a week before the bruises slowly faded.

Thinking about Mr Sorensen and those days made me want to go to the reunion after all. There was quite a good attendance, and I had been mingling with some of my former classmates for some time, but there was no sign of Mr Sorensen.

I was hugely disappointed. I had simply assumed he would be there. I didn’t actually know if he still taught at the school; or had moved someplace else, or, please I hope not, he had passed on. I wanted to see him again and tell him what I thought about him and his treatment of me all those years ago.

I knew Mr Sorensen was not popular among my classmates so I didn’t want to let people know I was anxious to meet him again. Even these days I wanted to be one of the guys.

Eventually, I could stand it no more and asked my friend Tommy. “Yes, he’s here,” he said with a wry smile, “He’s doing one-on-ones in his classroom.”

One-on-ones? Meeting people one at a time for private conversations and who knew what else?

I made my way to the classroom, passing a guy in the corridor. It was Ricky; he had been the class genius, always acing tests. My mom told me he went to university out West somewhere. He didn’t look too happy; I couldn’t be certain, but there appeared to be tears behind his eyes.

I reached the classroom. From the outside it looked the same as I remember it, except for tonight at least the glass windows in the door had been covered up, so you couldn’t see inside. I guess it was to give him privacy with his one-on-ones.

I raised my fist to knock on the door and hesitated. For the first time since I hatched this plan, I had my doubts. This was stupid. It was all a long time ago, I’m an adult now. We should forget the past and the paddlings and all that pain.

I knocked anyway and a confident voice responded. Apprehensively, I entered. Mr Sorensen had changed, but not much. His hair was a little thinner and grayer and his waist a little thicker, but he was the same Mr Sorensen.

He called me by my name; I was ridiculously delighted he had remembered me. “Hello, Sir,” I responded.

He smiled at me. It was a genuinely welcoming smile. “Come in, how are you? Tell me everything.”

Tell me everything. He had asked me, so I did. I told him about the mess my life had become in the past three or four years; how I had no structure to my life, no priorities and no objectives.

He listened passively, apparently taking in every word that I said.

“I have this list,” I said, pulling paper from my pocket. He took it from me and read it carefully.

“And, I still have this,” he reached over, opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out the Attitude Adjuster.

Our eyes met, we understood each other very well. There was no need for either of us to speak, except for him to say, “Assume the position.”

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


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