Bug on the wall

Come here, I’m going to spank you.

Spank me? I’m a bit too old to be spanked, don’t you think?

No, what are you? Eighteen?


Nineteen is not too old to be spanked. Plenty of nineteen year olds would benefit from a damn good spanking. And, you’re one of them mister.


Go upstairs and bring down the bathbrush.

Can’t we talk about this?

There is nothing to talk about. You stole my car.

I did not steal your car. It’s called taking and driving away. I did not intend to deprive you of your property.

Don’t get fresh with me. You did not have my permission. You are not insured to drive my car. Do you even have a license?


No, I thought not. Go upstairs and fetch that brush.

But, you can’t spank me. You love me.

It is because I love you that I’m gonna spank you.

Oh come on.

It’s up to you. You take a spanking; we move on. You don’t take a spanking; you move out.

You cannot be serious.

Oh yes I am mister. Remember Ryan?

Oh …

Upstairs. Bring that brush down and be quick about it.

[A minute of silence elapses.]

Good. Hand it to me.

But …

Come. Here. Keep still. You didn’t think I’d let you keep these heavy jeans on did you?

Oh come on …

Now, get here. Lay across my knee. Rest your head and arms here. Stretch your legs out behind you. Yeah, that’s it.

I can’t believe …

You better believe it buster. I am gonna blister your butt.

Hey, you can’t do that!

Yes, I can. It’s not a real spanking if it’s not on the bare.

Please, no.



Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

Oww! Oww! Com’on no! Pleeease!

Whack! Whack!

That’s enough. Ouch You’re hurting me.

That’s the point young man (wheeze). That’s the point.

Smack!  Smack!

Hissss. Yow!

Smack! Smack!

Ouch. Enough. Pleeease!

Smack! Smack!

You only have yourself to blame.

(Whack!) Are (Whack!) you (Whack!) gonna (Whack!) steal (Whack!) my (Whack!) car again? (Whack! Whack!)


Smack! Smack!

Am I getting through to you?



Yes, what?


Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.

Yes, you will be. By the time I’ve finished with you mister. You’ll be sorry then.

Whack!!! Whack!!!

Two minutes later.

Whack!!! Whack!!! Whack!!!

There. Will I have to do this again?

Sob, sob. No. I’m sorry. Sob, sob.

Get up.

Sorry, Sob. Sob.

Here, come here. Give me a kiss.

Sorry dada.

I love you.

I love you too.

Outside fifty yards down the road, in the back of an unmarked white van two newspaper reporters silently exchange glances. One switches off the recording device. Another working day is drawing to a close.


Other stories you might like.

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Paul and his landlord 2

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Don’t bully our mum

USED brush bedroom (2)Barry had just ended the phone call. It was his mum. She was in great distress. She hadn’t stopped crying. It was because of his kid brother Don.

Barry paced the room, he could feel the anger rising inside of him. It was his responsibility. He was the man of the house, even though he had moved out of “home” years ago. He had to be the one to deal with this.

He switched the kettle on. He would make a cup of coffee while he figured out what to do.

Don was nineteen years old and the only one of the three Donovan boys still living at home. Dad had moved out years ago and there was only Don and his mum left. Don was way out of line. He couldn’t be bothered to get a job, he was spending all his welfare money on weed and he was giving his mum one hell of a time.

“I can’t control him,” she had wailed to Barry on the phone. “I don’t know what to do,” she gulped through sobs. She was at her wits’ end, she said. Barry had to help her.

Barry didn’t know what to do either. How could he tame his kid brother?

Then he had an idea.

Barry was twenty-two years old and a successful semi-pro boxer. He couldn’t have been more different to Don. Where Barry was big and strong; Don was thin and puny. The solution was simple, Barry thought. He would go see Don, tell him he had to mend his ways with mum and start doing what she said. He had to get a job – there were plenty of burger bars in town – and start acting responsibly.

If he didn’t, Barry would punch his face in. He could do it; easily. And, he would do, if that’s what it took.

That was how the next night Barry came to have Don by the throat. The younger boy’s eyes popped as he gasped for breath. He was choking. If Barry didn’t let go soon, Don would pass out on the floor.

Barry was no thug, he was a pugilist. A boxer. An athlete. He set his brother free and watched in quiet satisfaction as his kid brother sank to his knees, gulping in great draughts of air, his face scarlet.

Barry had already decided not to punch Don’s face in. He deserved it that was for certain. But, Barry realised his mum would be in great distress when she saw her little baby with a bloody nose and a black eye.

There was another way to rein in his brother. A few months ago a pal had told him about his friend John. John was the same age as Barry and he had an out-of-control kid brother too. The eighteen-year-old had been caught stealing at the newsagent where he worked. So John took a whippy school cane to the brat’s backside. That sorted him out.

Barry had no idea where to get hold of a school cane. If he had known this John guy personally he could have asked for a loan of his. But he didn’t. So he couldn’t cane Don’s backside, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give him one hell of a spanking.

Don sat on the floor regaining his composure. Barry knew the look of fear in the teenager’s eyes. He had seen it many times before. The boy knew when he was whipped. His brother dominated him; he could punch his lights out anytime he wanted.

“Stand up!” Barry didn’t give his brother a chance to do it under his own steam. He gripped the boy’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. He held on tightly and pulled the boy forward so their faces were only inches apart. Tears welled behind Don’s eyes.

“Right. You want to act like a brat, I’m going to treat you like a brat.” Barry stared blank-eyed at his brother. It was a look he had perfected in boxing. It scared the shit out of opponents; they thought it was the look of a crazy man.

It worked on Don. His body shook uncontrollably.

“This is what you are going to do.” Barry pulled his brother even closer. He could smell his stinky breath. “You are going to take down your trousers and pants. Then you are going to bend over my knee. Then I am going to spank your arse black and blue.”

“No way.” It was a natural terrified reaction, not a statement made with confidence. Don couldn’t fight off his brother.

“Yes way.”

Barry released his grip and rushed around the room, hurriedly opening and closing cupboards and doors. He quickly found what he was looking for. A large light brown clothes brush. It was nearly a foot long if you included the handle and the bristle side was easily four inches wide. It was heavy enough to inflict real pain; especially if whacked down with great force across a bared backside.

Don was rooted. If he tried to run, his brother would catch him. Then what? His brother was built like a brick outhouse. He’d probably get a good kicking. And then the spanking …

The nineteen-year-old watched as his brother grabbed a dining room chair and set it in the middle of the room. Barry sat down and glared at Don.

“B ..b..” Don was already blubbing like a little kid. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I promise.”

His brother sneered. His contempt for his wimp of a brother was total. “Too right you won’t. Not after I’ve finished with this.” He waved the brush in the air. “Now, get over here.”

Don was a bully to his mother. He had terrorised her for years. Like so many bullies, he was also a coward. He stood his ground. He was too chicken to submit himself for his deserved punishment.

“Ahhh!” Barry rose from the chair, reached forward and dragged his brother forward. Then resuming his sitting position, he unbuckled the boy’s belt. Don was too terrified to resist. The button and zip on his jeans were soon open and the denims slipped down his legs. His Calvin’s quickly followed.

Barry’s strength was so great Don practically flew over his lap when he gripped his arm and propelled him downwards.

Barry had never spanked anyone before, nor had he seen it done. But he reckoned it couldn’t be that difficult. Without ceremony, he raised the brush and brought it crashing down in the middle of Don’s left buttock. A dark pink mark, a perfect match of the oval head of the brush, immediately appeared.

Spankings come in many shapes and sizes. At their best the one lying with his face down in the carpet accepts his wrongdoing. He is a bad, bad boy. He deserves to have his buttocks toasted. He agrees to take his hiding with fortitude. He will make as little fuss as possible.

At their worst, the one on the receiving end resists. He fights. He struggles. He kicks and punches. He yells and screams. He threatens every kind of retribution to the guy pounding away at his buttocks. He makes as much fuss as possible.

Don did not take his spanking well. Barry with his vastly superior strength was more than capable of pinning his kid brother over his lap. The boy was going nowhere. That didn’t stop Don kicking his legs and wriggling his body and flailing his arms. He desperately tried everything to break away.

It was Barry’s first time as a spanker, but he was a quick learner. To do the job effectively he needed unencumbered access to the target area: the buttocks. The kicking and flapping around of arms was impeding his access.

Barry pulled Don further forward over his lap to give him the room to swing his own right leg across his brother’s calves. That dealt with the legs. Then he grabbed the boy’s right hand and forced his arm up his back. There would be no more flailing and flapping. Don’s bare buttocks were now at the mercy of his brother. But Barry was showing none of that.

Bang! Bang! Bang! the sound of wooden brush connecting with stretched buttocks resounded around the room. Up and down, up and down, the brushed bounced off the boy’s by-now red-raw bum.

It was unrelenting, relentless, vicious, brutal. Barry’s huge muscular arm bulged with the effort. Don’s squeals turned to yelps; then increased to yells and grew to shrieks and screams. The pain started as a slight discomfort, became a dull throb and quickly turned to agony.

The teenager bawled his eyes out. Tears and snot cascaded down his face. He could scarcely breathe. His heartrate was off the scale, blood rushed through his body at speed; he felt sure it would burst through his ears.

Barry had the strength of the semi-pro boxer that he was. He could keep this up all night. On and on he whacked. His kid brother’s bum had once been creamy white. It soon turned deep pink, then red followed by dark claret. Now, it was mauve and soon it would be dark blue. Not one square inch of the boy’s buttocks or thighs had been left unscathed by the severity of the spanking.

When fighting in the ring, Barry never knew when to stop. Even when he was being beaten. He would never give up. Someone would have to throw in the towel. Only then would it be over.

Barry would have gone on all night. He didn’t care. He was on a mission. His duty was to protect his mum from his bullying little brother.

“Barry! Barry!” It was his mum. He heard her voice as she rushed into the room even over the screams of his brother. “Enough!”

She had consented to the spanking. When Barry told her his plan, she thought it was a jolly good idea. Someone should have given Don a good hiding years ago.  But this was too much. He had had enough.

Sheepishly, Barry released his grip. Like a dog out of a trap, Don sprang from his brother’s lap and without even taking up his jeans and pants he rushed from the room and headed up the stairs.

Barry and his mum were silent; neither of them knew what to say. Barry put the brush down on the dining room table and stood awkwardly.

What should happen next, he thought. How should this end?

“I’ll make a nice cup of tea,” his mum whispered and went to busy herself in the kitchen.


Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

When Dad got home

Toby’s father visits


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


COMING SOON: The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh

Meet Rev Crick, the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh; a quaint English village. He rules his three paying guests at the vicarage with a rod of rattan. The university students must be on their best behaviour at all times. Or else.

No misbehaving young man is safe from the clergyman as he watches over the village. Thieving sixth-form schoolboys, an irresponsible boy scout and brattish teenagers all feel the sting of the vicar’s cane, belt and taws.

A major new series of stories starts on Monday 1 February 2016 and continues through the week.

Episode 1. Meet Craig, the vicar’s new nineteen-year-old paying guest. Craig’s mother has deposited her son with him and given strict instructions for Rev Crick to whip the lazy teenager into shape.

Episode 2. The Reverend’s lodgers face the weekly ‘reckoning’ where they pay for their bad behaviour with very sore backsides indeed.

Episode 3. Rev Crick leaves his vicarage to pay a house call on the bratty son of his cleaning lady. The arrogant sixth-form pupil is soon across the vicar’s knee for a buttock-blistering meeting with a brush.

Starts Monday 1 February and continues Wednesday 3 and Friday 5 February 2016. Further episodes will appear throughout 2016.


Rev Crick watched emotionlessly as Craig settled himself down. The height of the couch meant the boy had to stretch his legs which in turn tightened the muscles in his buttocks. The boy wore dark grey trousers with a subtle blue check. They were part of a tailor-made suit and fitted him to perfection. The vicar who had considerable experience beating buttocks believed it to be the best presented backside he had seen for some time.

Craig’s breathing was a little laboured and his buttock cheeks trembled in anticipation of the first stroke. The cane had looked fearsome and the teenager had no doubt it would soon inflict searing pain upon him.

Rev Crick took up position to the boy’s left side, took a moment to find his aim and then took a powerful swipe. It was as if he were beating a carpet. There was no dust on Craig’s backside to rise, but a distinct line appeared across the very centre of his bum where the cane had struck home.

– Extract from episode 1



Other stories involving clergymen that you might like

A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers

The vicar and the gay boys


Two brothers

I should have guessed I was in for a spanking the moment we sat down for breakfast.

We were all sat at the table, tucking into the traditional fried English breakfast. “We” were my dad, mum, my twenty-year-old brother, Barry, and me, Michael, an eighteen-year-old schoolboy living in Brocklehurst, a modern “New Town” in England.

The kitchen was a reasonably sized room. Our family was not rich, but we weren’t poor either. We had all the “mod-cons” of the day: the fridge, the washing machine, you know the kind of things.

The room was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser stacked with fancy china plates that we never used and a large wooden kitchen table. Dad was at one end of the table sitting to attention, his back straight as a ram-rod. Mum was at the other end, hiding behind the morning newspaper, and me and Barry were next to each other along one side.

Breakfast was not usually taken in a hurry, but today I could sense an atmosphere in the room. Mum was agitated and hurriedly finished eating and left the room saying to no one in particular she had, “Things to do.”

Barry, who was usually the first one to finish was lingering. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. I should have realised then that they knew something that I didn’t.

Dad started it off. “Michael you came in last night at two o’clock, and you were covered in mud.”

Oh, I get it. I’m for it.

Barry was going nowhere until dad said, “Barry, please leave us alone.” My brother had a huge smirk in his face as he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Now, Michael.” dad wasn’t one to mince his words. He told me my behaviour was unacceptable. As a schoolboy, I was too young to be out at that time. He reminded me that he’d told me about this before, but I was taking no notice.

And that was it. “Stand up please.” Dad scraped his chair back from the table so his knees were clear of it.

I did as I was told, pushed my own chair back and stood.

Dad was probably in his forties, but looked much older. He was medium height and lean with hair cut in the short-back-and-sides fashion he had worn it since his days twenty years before when he had done his National Service in the Army. The hair was slicked back with greasy hair oil known as Brylcreem.

He had a short, well-groomed moustache, but it was not as dark as his hair. It hid the top lip of his pasty-white face.

Whenever I think of him, he always looked the same. That’s because he always did look the same, come summer or winter. He wore a beige cardigan with the buttons done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. He wore old dark trousers – part of a suit relegated from work-day use to what we never called in those days “leisure wear.”

Grey socks and bedroom slippers completed his outfit.

Dad was aware of Barry smirking through the serving hatch that separated our kitchen from the dining room. Turning his body slightly to the left, dad spoke over his shoulder. “Barry, do you want to join him?”

“No dad.”

Barry darted away from the hatch.

Satisfied that he was alone with his son, dad reached down and removed the slipper from his right foot.

He gestured with it that I should stand close to his right hand side. I shuffled forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your jeans, please.” Again, without complaint, I did as instructed. My hands trembled more than I thought they should as I unbuckled my belt, unfastened the two buttons at the waistband and the four on the fly and pushed my Levis to my knees, exposing my dark blue underpants.

Dad adjusted himself on his chair. He moved his bottom a bit, making sure his spine was firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separated his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest would rest.

I could see Barry had again taken up a position the other side of the serving hatch so he could witness my spanking. He was still smirking: he had a clear open face that was made for smiling: he did it all the time, but I wished he wouldn’t do it now.

Dad had forgotten all about Barry. If he had known he was spying, dad would have brought him into the kitchen and given him a darned-good spanking as well – twenty years old or not.

“Bend over my knee, please.”

I was across him in one movement. I stretched my hands in front of me and kept my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor.

I waited patiently. I had a close up view of the dark- and light-blue patterned lino floor covering and the scuff marks where for years chairs had scraped in and out under the kitchen table.

Dad grabbed hold of the tail of my shirt, a very fashionable (at the time) mauve floral print one, and pulled it way up my back, nearly to my shoulders. He smoothed my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I took a deep breath.

The first whack hit me square in the middle of the left bum cheek. The second was on the right. Dad wasn’t a sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for us to get the message and mend our ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise us.

I gasped a little as the third and fourth wallops hit right on top of the previous two. Then he quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after a dozen whacks. It hurt alright. I was sore, but I wasn’t about to burst into sobs or anything.

Dad was finished spanking, but he continued to hold me down over his knees. He still had things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes dad.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“Don’t come home late.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No dad.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes dad.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggled to my feet, pulled up my jeans and did them up.

As I was leaving the kitchen to go to my room, dad swivelled to his left and caught sight of Barry’s smirking face.

“Barry, come in here please.”

That wiped the stupid grin off his face.

I waited for Barry to go into the kitchen and then took his place in the dining room.

This was going to be too good to miss.

Barry reluctantly entered the kitchen, just as dad cleared away the breakfast things from the table top.

Dad and Barry stood facing each other, eye to eye. I hadn’t really noticed it before but Barry was probably an inch or so taller than dad, and who knows, maybe if he wanted to Barry could beat dad in a fight. But there was to be no fight: not today.

Not too many words were exchanged between the two. Barry knew why he was here. Not only had he been spying on my spanking, he continued to do so even though dad had ordered him not to.

I think dad saw the disobedience as a more serious crime than the spying. Anyhow, it was a double whammy for Barry and he was going to get one heck of a hiding.

“Trousers and pants down.”

It was simple, calm instruction. Barry loosened his belt and pulled his shirt tail out from his trouser waistband. Then holding both his trousers and his underpants by the waist, in one movement he pulled them down. The weight of his belt took the trousers to his feet and the dark red pants dangled around his knees.

“Bend over the table.” Just as I had done, Barry did as he was told without question. He reached forward over the kitchen table with his stomach and chest resting on the table top. At first he seemed unsure where to place his arms, but settled for folding them in front of him so he could bury his face in his arms.

Barry moved his legs slightly so they were tucked in almost under the table, and his bare behind jutted out from the table, positively inviting the whacking he was about to receive.

Dad was in no hurry. I had a perfect view of proceedings, but dad never noticed me (or, maybe he did, but thought that since Barry had witnessed my spanking, I was entitled to witness his).

Dad moved over to the side drawer of the kitchen table, the drawer was stiff, but eventually it opened. Without looking dad put his hand inside and after a few moments fished out what he was searching for: his razor strop.

The strop was old-fashioned even then. It was a long strip of brown leather maybe an inch or two wide and at least a quarter-inch thick. I don’t know if dad ever used the strop for its rightful purpose – safety razors had been invented a long time ago – but this was the first time I ever knew him to use it for its secondary purpose. I suppose generations of naughty boys had felt one of these across their backsides, clothed or bare, but I wasn’t aware of anyone that I knew being on the deadly end of one. And, certainly no twenty year old.

As dad was going about his business, I saw Barry turn his head to the left to see what was going on.

“Face the front,” dad snapped. “You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on here.”

Barry had a very open face, fresh and boyish some people might say. I know a lot of girls found it very kissable. So did quite a few boys, we were to discover once Barry had gone off to work in Manchester.

Dad was ready now. He stood close to Barry on the right hand side, so he was almost touching him, and with no real swing he moved the strop back by about a foot and brought it crashing down into Barry’s naked flesh.

Barry winced visibly, but otherwise kept his composure.

CRACK! The second and then CRACK! the third lash cut into Barry’s bare buttocks. One on the left: one on the right.

Barry let out a kind of repressed whistle, showing that the leathering he was getting was effective indeed.

He buried his head deeper into his arms. I didn’t have a perfect few of his rear end, but I could tell Barry’s bottom was reddening quickly. Soon it would be cherry coloured and before the thrashing was over, purple.

CRACK! It must have been blow number ten when Barry raised his head from his arms and let out a piecing yell. It was as horrible as it was unexpected. Tears were gushing from Barry’s eyes and he was clearly in great distress.

Oddly, I felt no sympathy with Barry at that point. Instead I could only wonder if the neighbours could hear the noise, and guess that one or other of us was getting a damn good hiding from dad. The thought of them knowing disturbed me a little.

CRACK! I don’t know if Barry had the same thought because this time he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle his yell.

CRACK! Barry’s body jiggled from left to right as he tried to absorb the pain and desperately stop himself from jumping off the table to rub away the sting from his bum.

And, then it was over. As I’ve said dad was no sadist. Barry had taken a dozen lashes with the strop and judging from the tears flooding down his cheeks the belting had left its marks.

On dad’s instruction, Barry lifted himself off the table and bending down he gingerly pulled up his underpants. I could see him wince again as the pants brushed against his blistered bum as he pulled them to his waist. With both hands he rubbed his buttocks furiously through his cotton pants.

Then another grimace as he bent over once more to reach to his feet for his trousers. A second or so later they too were at his waist. I could see that Barry just wanted to rub and rub away at his throbbing backside, but instead he fastened his trousers and stood in front of dad, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

A few words from dad and he was ordered to his room. I waited a few seconds and followed him up. We were two brothers who had both had a spanking from their dad and despite any other rivalries we might have in our lives there was nothing that could break that bonding.


Other stories featuring the slipper that you might like. Click on the title.


The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair

The fire-raiser


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


You can never escape Dad

Under his arm, dad held a long thin cane. It was like nothing Alan had seen before. It wasn’t a length of garden bamboo. It had a curved handle at one end and even in its current lifeless state, it looked extremely whippy.

“I got it on eBay,” dad said in response to the quizzical look from his son. “Especially,” he smirked.

Alan Hawkes was twenty-four years old. He was a purchasing administrator for a national fast-food chain. He lived with his girlfriend. They had a child. They even had a mortgage. He was an independent adult. But, he would never be free of his dad.

You can never escape Dad is a never-before published story by Charles Hamilton II now available on the Canery Website. To read it, click here


Charles Hamilton the Second



The Private Tutor: 3

used taws on hands (3)

A group of lazy eighteen-year-old sixth-form school pupils are in danger of failing their exams. The Private Tutor has been hired to get them back on track. They are mid-way through a special Saturday “revision class.”

Part one of the story is here. Part two here.


A hand bell rang from right outside the classroom door.

“Alright form. It is now Play Time. Please leave the classroom quietly. Be sure to be back in class ready to start work in fifteen minutes time,” the tutor instructed.

I was putting my pens and pencils away in my desk when I noticed the man in the tracksuit I had seen when I arrived had entered the room. He was in animated conversation with the tutor. By the way they were both looking over in my direction I knew they were talking about me.

The man was no longer in track suit. He, like the tutor, was in an academic gown, but he was not wearing a mortar-board. He was a middle-aged man with severely thinning grey hair.

“Carstairs!” the tutor called to attract my attention. “You are to remain seated at your desk until all the other pupils have left the classroom.”

Meekly, I did as instructed. In no time at all we were the only three people left in the classroom.

“Carstairs, come here.” I swear the tutor actually beckoned me with a crooked finger and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the pair of them.

I wriggled out from behind my desk, managing not to bark my shins in the process and stood where indicated.

“I believe you have already met Mr Smisk, our headmaster.”

Before I could confirm this to be true, he spoke up.

“Carstairs, you are a thoroughly objectionable young man. I want you to go to my study and wait outside facing the wall with your hands on your head until I arrive.”

“Headmaster’s study?”  who were these people? Who is it that builds an old-fashioned classroom in their back garden, then dresses up as a headmaster?

“My study is at the end of the hall, you will see my name on the door. Go now.”

I did. It wasn’t a large house and the study was easy to find. It had what appeared to be an oak door and on a wooden panel was painted the words: Mr. T. L. Smisk. Headmaster.

As an eighteen year old I wasn’t very experienced in life but I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next. Now, was my chance to walk out the door and never come back. My father would not need to know; the exams started this week, I was probably as ready to take them as I ever would be. I’d never need to see the pervy tutor ever again.

But, I didn’t leg it to freedom. Instead, I stood outside Mr Smisk’s study, faced the wall and put my hands on my head, submissively.

Something was stirring inside of me as I contemplated the inevitable that was about to happen. I’d been spanked and caned and slippered by the tutor, but he had never made me catch my breath quite like this.

I know from that time at our house that Harry was turned on when he was punished, but it had never happened to me in quite the same way: although I did have one time with my girlfriend Sharon. It was a few days after I had been caned by the tutor. I’d forgotten about it and on Friday I went out on the lash with the gang as always. Sharon’s parents were away so we went back to her house. We snogged and got passionate on the bed and before long her dress was off and my trousers and pants were down.

Most of the girls think my arse is my prime asset, so it was no surprise that with it bare to the wind that’s where she headed. Then, she noticed something was not quite as it should be. I hadn’t inspected myself that day and didn’t realise my bum hadn’t properly healed.

“What’s this? Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

Of course, I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I played along.

“Oive bin a vewy nawty likkle boy,” I said in my best baby voice.

She didn’t need any persuasion. She turned me over so I was face down in the duvet and slapped my bare arse. Slap, slap, slap. She wasn’t very expert and I don’t know if she was trying to “punish” me or just give my globes a good rubbing. She wasn’t an expert but by God she was enthusiastic.

“You naughty, naughty boy.” She kept saying it as she slapped away, “Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

I could feel my cock stirring, but it wasn’t about to crow.

Then she turned me on my back, straddled me and went at it like a steam hammer.

Thank you tutor. Thank you. Thank you.

Mr Smisk arrived just as I was reliving the climax of my session with Sharon. He unlocked his study door and told me to follow him in.

The room was a revelation: someone had gone to great lengths to make it look like a traditional study, the kind of place that would have featured in the school stories of eighty years ago: Billy Bunter, that kind of thing.

In truth it was just an ordinary sized room in a suburban detached house but wooden panels around the walls helped take it back to a bygone age.

A heavy mahogany desk topped in red leather dominated the room. A leather Chesterfield combination of couch and comfortable chair took up most of the remaining space, but there was also a small bookcase, a couple of wooden chairs and a footstall. In one corner stood a writing bureau.

And, of course, in another corner stood a tall vase stuffed with a number of canes, some crook-handled, some not, and incongruously I thought, a wooden carpet beater.

The floor was bare boards, except for a large rug that was placed in front of the desk.

“Stand there boy,” Mr Smisk commanded, pointing to a place on the carpet facing the desk. Then he sat himself down at the desk.

He tore me off a strip. He said I was “uncouth,” “foul mouthed” a “brat.”

“What would your mother or father have to say if they heard you speaking like that?” It was rhetorical, I didn’t need to answer.

But I did have to respond to, “What have you got to say for yourself, young man?”

Not much actually. I mumbled something about I was in a hurry, nervous, it was out of character.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. He took that as his cue. “Sorry! You soon will be Carstairs.”

With that he rose from his chair and walked the few steps to the vase. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, because he drew out a thick, straight cane. It was dark yellow in colour and from where I was standing it looked quite thick. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle that school canes always seemed to have. This one had what looked like twine wrapped around one end, presumably to give the caner something to get a grip on.

He swished the cane once or twice to show that he was ready for business.

“Turn and face that way,” he said pointing to the bookcase.

I did. Suddenly I could hear voices from the other side of a window. The curtains were not drawn and I could see the study overlooked the garden. The rest of the class were going into the garden to play. I saw they would be able to hear – and see – everything that happened in the headmaster’s study.

Undeterred by this, Mr Smisk set about his duty.

“Take down your shorts and bend over.”

They fitted me so well, I didn’t need a belt. It was easy to undo the buttons of my grey Terylene shorts and let them fall to my feet. I was wearing the regulation white Y-fronts this time.  I bent over. He hadn’t specified to “touch your toes,” but I knew from painful experience this was what was expected and since I had an athletic body, it was no struggle for me to assume the position.

I heard him swish the cane once or twice for practice.

Then, he took hold of the waistband of my underpants and pulled them down, just enough that my buttocks were exposed. The pants didn’t fall below my thighs. Although my bum was bare, my cock and balls were still covered by white cotton.

“Carstairs,” he intoned. “I am going to cane you and I want you to count out the strokes after each one and say, ‘Thank you Sir, please may I have another.’ Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I heard the noise of the cane swishing through the air, and thought, “This is it.” Then the cane landed and for a moment I felt nothing at all. Then a terrible fiery pain spread all though my whole body.

“Ssssssss,” I hissed, “One. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Most certainly.” Swish!

“Haaaa, two. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Of course.” Swish!

I hissed, desperately trying to come to terms with the incandescent fire engulfing my bottom.

“Three. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Without hesitation.” Swipe!

“Yawooo!” That one was the hardest so far. The force of the blow made my legs buckle a little, my whole backside seemed to be on fire, but I still remembered my lines.

“Four. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Only too happy to oblige.” Swipe!

Another hard whack. The pain was pulsating through my arse and legs. I struggled to keep my fingertips on my toes. I wanted to spring up and clutch my burning buttocks, but I could be sure that if I did I’d get extra stokes.

“Five. Thank you Sir, please – may – I – have – another,” it was more difficult to get the words out.


“Yowll!. Yow. Yow. Yow.” This time I did a little dance from foot to foot. I half stood up, but not enough to be really standing. I hoped the headmaster would see it that way anyhow and not give me extra stripes.

He hadn’t said so, but I hoped six-of-the-best was my allotted tariff. Even though his rules required that I ask for more. “Six. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“No, Carstairs, I think you have had quite sufficient for one day. But, believe me boy if I hear that you have been using filthy language again, I shall give you a dozen. Stand up boy. Get dressed.”

I pulled up my pants to cover my blistered arse and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed away at it. I didn’t care if he was watching me do it. An extra wave of pain shot through me as I stretched down to retrieve my short trousers from my feet.

“Now, Carstairs go join your fellows at play in the garden. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you Mr Smisk.” Still rubbing my bum furiously, I left his study.

It helped to get out into the garden. I did some running on the spot and jumping up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV were always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. It does seem to work. I saw in the garden that Rawlings had much the same idea.

Still hopping and skipping a bit, I went to see if I could find Harry. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day he came to study at my house and I’d have liked to get reacquainted. I’d realised after we spent some time together following our thrashing together that I hardly knew a thing about him, where he lived, what school he went to: I didn’t even know his last name.

I saw him and a chum from a distance. They were playing catch with a ball: two eight-year-olds together. They seemed to be having so much fun. They were clearly “relaxed in each other’s company,” as newspapers of the time often sneered when they meant you-know-what.

I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy. The bell for end of Play Time rang at that moment sent us back to the classroom.

The tutor handed out test papers. The idea was to see how much of the lesson we had endured before Play Time we could remember.

“Any boy who scores less than seventy percent in this exercise will find himself across my knee,” the tutor intoned.

“Silence everybody. You may begin.”

And there was silence as eight boys set about discovering whether they even had the ghost of a chance of passing their A-level that week.

The tutor strode around the classroom, his hands clasped behind his back. I think he was trying to intimidate us a little in case we thought we might try a little cheating and help one another out with the answers.

The tutor might have been a good crammer, but he was a lousy actor. If he thought he was Mr Quelch the Master of the Remove at Billy Bunter’s Grayfrairs School, he had another think coming. I almost snorted with laughter at the absurdity of the man. I’m glad I didn’t considering the flogging Rawlings received earlier when the tutor thought he was trying it on with him.

All you could hear in the classroom was the sound of the tutor strutting around like Groucho Marx and the breathing of eight boys as we tried to figure out the answer to the test.

After a short while the tutor must have become bored walking up and down and returned to his own desk.

The test was hard, but I was coping with it alright. I was about half way through when the tutor disrupted us again.

“Sergeant! What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Yes you were. You were trying to look at Clifford’s paper.”

Clifford was the boy seated next to him. Aware that he might be drawn into an argument with the tutor that would end in only one way – a very sore backside, Clifford said, “It’s nothing to do with me Sir. I’m not helping Sergeant, Sir.”

The tutor left his desk and strode to the front of the class.

“Both of you boys stand up this instance.”

Sergeant and Clifford rose from their seats. The rest of us stopped writing and watched on – hoping this distraction would be too good to miss.

“Come to the front of the class, both of you and bring your test papers with you.”

“It’s nothing to do with me, Sir,” Clifford protested, but he still obeyed the instruction and made his way from his desk. Sergeant took the same decision.

The tutor grabbed the test papers from the boys and examined them.

“Sergeant, you have been cheating. You have copied from Clifford.”

Sergeant could not see how the tutor could possibly tell, but he didn’t want to raise an argument with him about it – because it was true, he had copied.

“Clifford, return to your seat.” A relived Clifford skedaddled back to his desk, leaving Sergeant to face the might of the tutor’s wrath.

“Stand there, Sergeant. Face the class.”

We knew he was going to cop it from the tutor that was for certain. The only matter in doubt was what instrument of punishment would the tutor employ?

We soon found out. He turned his back on the class and returned to his desk where he opened a drawer and extracted a thick, dark brown Lochgelly taws. I could see Sergeant’s wide brown eyes start to water, even from my place in the second row.

It looked a monstrous weapon. It must have been a foot-and-a-half long and was made of shiny leather. It had a handle which took up about a quarter of its length and the “business end” was shaped into two tails.

“There is no value in cheating in a test, Sergeant; you will be the only loser in the end. You are an exceedingly stupid boy. What are you?”

“An exceedingly stupid boy,” Sergeant stumbled over the word “exceedingly,” perhaps demonstrating that indeed stupidity was one of his major characteristics.

The tutor held the taws tightly in his hand and swished it about in practice. Then he stood directly in front of Sergeant: they were eye to eye, and he was ready to go.

“Right Sergeant up with your hands, palms flat.” The boy raised his hand, one on top of the other, ready for the first blow. Unlike with Bob Rake, the tutor did not inquire which of his hands he used when writing. Sergeant must be getting a double dose.

The tutor raised the taws high and took it back over his right shoulder. Then he brought it crashing down on the palm of Sergeant’s hand with maximum force. The blow was awesome – the pain shot through his hands and the force of the blow made him drop them to his side, rub them together, wiggle them about as if he were dementedly waving to a crowd and blow onto his palms.

“Up boy – get those hands up,” the tutor barked.

With considerable fortitude, I thought, he did so. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one Sergeant repeated his hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other.

Upon instruction, he slowly and painfully swapped the hands over. His right hand was crimson from the belting so far and his hand was numb.

The tutor gave him three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. Sergeant’s eyes were moist but he wasn’t openly crying. It must have been excruciatingly painful, and his body was shivering as he doubled up with his hands under his armpits.

“Sit here at this desk at the front Sergeant and finish your test,” the tutor instructed as he returned to his own desk. Did I imagine it or was the tutor a little over-satisfied that his thick leather taws had Sergeant dancing a Scottish reel in agony? Sergeant was soon to discover that with a strapping from the taws, the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in.


The test was over and the tutor marked the papers and distributed them among the boys. I was relieved to see I had passed with eighty-eight percent. I was home and dry. I’d always known I wasn’t stupid: in fact I was quite academically able, but I had lost my focus a lot and needed to be redirected. That’s how I’d ended up with the tutor. It had been his “old fashioned methods” of corporal punishment that had kept me on the straight and narrow. Bring on the A-levels.

“Only one boy has failed this test.” The tutor was speaking. “Harrison, stand up.” Over to my left I saw Harry spring to his feet.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Fifty-two percent. You are either an incredibly stupid little boy, or incredibly lazy. Which is it Harrison?”

Harry had no answer to that. But, I suspected that I had. From our time working together, I knew Harry was as bright as a button. I’d always assumed he was just like me, lacking focus. But, I also knew from that evening Harry got turned on by being walloped. The tutor has threatened an over-the-knee spanking to any boy who failed the test. Had Harry engineered this?

“Come out to the front, Harrison.”

Eagerly, I thought, Harry left his desk.

Meanwhile, the tutor returned to his the shelf behind his desk and picked up a small spanking paddle. He lifted the chair from behind his desk and carried it placing squarely in spot in front of his pupils. Every boy present would get a clear view of this.

The tutor sat in the straight backed wooden chair, feet planted firmly on the ground, but with his knees closed together.

“Stand there boy!” he clicked his fingers to indicate a point a foot or so from his right side. The eighteen-year-old boy obeyed.

“Trousers down.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. Slowly and carefully, Harry undid the button of his grey school short trousers, slid down the zip, and with the merest flick of his wrists sent them flowing to the floor. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, legs straight, ready for the next instruction, which wasn’t long in coming.

“Bend over my knee boy!”

The tutor’s knees were so close together that Harry had no choice but to lay across them with his face and his huge shock of curly hair almost touching the floorboards, his bottom was high over the tutor’s thigh with his legs behind at a forty-five degree angle. Harry shifted his position a little. He was raising his pert bum higher.

It was as if Harry was saying to the tutor, “Yes, I am submissive. I deserve this spanking. Here, take my bum: do your worst.”

The tutor smoothed Harry white Y-fronts across his buttocks. I’d noticed the last time I saw him beaten that his underpants were brilliant white: whiter than any whiteness I had seen before or since. He should be in a washing powder commercial on television.

The tutor took a firm grip on his paddle. It was almost square, about the size of a paperback novel, much smaller than the one he had blistered my own backside with when we met for our first class. This paddle had nine holes drilled into it, presumably to reduce the wind resistance as the tutor whacked it through the air.

He brought it down on Harry’s left cheek with a loud crack. It wasn’t the hardest blow he could have given, but the sound of wood connecting with flesh echoed round the classroom. The tutor repeated the stroke with moderate force three more times: another one on the right cheek, then two on the left.

Harry felt his whole bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung, but the pain wasn’t excruciating. He was a regular naughty boy and what the tutor was dishing out was still within his comfort zone.

The tutor laid on some more whacks, increasing their strength as he went along. Harry maintained his bum’s high position throughout.

The tutor paused after a dozen. I thought he would probably take Harry’s Y-fronts down at some point and deliver a few on the bare, but he never did. Maybe the tutor knew Harry as well as I did and didn’t want to risk having his nice academic gown and trousers soiled.

“You need to buck your ideas up a bit, boy!” the tutor scolded and brought another dozen steady rhythmic rising and falling swats of the paddle down into Harry’s buttocks.

Harry definitely felt those, his bum was throbbing. His breathing was heavy, but he didn’t make any other noise as the tutor went about his task.

Then it was over.

“Stand up boy.”

Harry rose, he face was as beetroot red as I assumed his buttocks to be.

His hands went to sooth his burning bottom, rubbing against the smooth white cotton of his underwear. He turned his back on the classroom of boys (to hide from us his raging erection?) and pulled up his short trousers.

The tutor ordered him to return to his seat.

A bell rang outside the door.

“All right boys, that’s today’s revision class over. Good luck in the exam this week. Please be here the same time next Saturday for the next class. Please arrive fully dressed in school uniform and do not be late.

“Class dismissed.”

The Private Tutor, Episode 4 is here.


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The Private Tutor: 2

used plimsoll (3)

A group of lazy eighteen-year-old sixth-form school pupils are in danger of failing their exams. The Private Tutor has been hired to get them back on track.

Part one of the story is here.


I was studying hard and I didn’t think there would be any reason for the tutor to spank me again – but I hadn’t reckoned with Revision Class.

The A-levels started next week and the tutor had called all his pupils together for the first of two classes so we could cram as much as possible into our lazy little heads to enable us to pass our exams.

I had been doing quite well since my dad forced me to take on the extra studies with the private tutor. I’m not a stupid boy, but at eighteen years old I had lost direction a little and was falling way behind with my school work. Dad reckoned, correctly as it turned out, that if I didn’t have the self-discipline to study, some discipline would have to be imposed on me.

My tutor dished out spankings when I slacked and they were keeping me in line.

It was Saturday and I had to be at the Revision Class by nine. The address the tutor had given me was in Hazelwood Avenue, only a few streets away from where I lived. I reckoned it would only take a few minutes to get there, so I was in no hurry leaving.

We were instructed to arrive in our school uniforms: grey school short trousers, grey knee socks, white shirt, striped tie and black shoes. There was no way I was walking through my neighbourhood dressed like that, but there was a simple solution. I put on a pair of brown cord trousers, ones that my new girlfriend Sharon found particularly revealing of my bum and manhood, stuffed the short trousers and tie into a plastic carrier-bag and set off for school.

I found the street with no trouble. It was a typical middle-class suburban road, just like the one I lived in. But, I couldn’t find the actual address. I was expecting a school or a college or some kind of community building, but all I found was a row of expensive detached houses.

I checked on the bit of paper I had written the address on: number 42. I walked from one end of the street to the other, but couldn’t find anything that looked like it would be the schoolroom. I was late for school now and quickened my pace and retraced my steps. No, no schoolroom.

There was a house called number 42, it was hidden a little behind a wall, so I decided I’d better go through the gate and ring the bell to see if anyone knew where I was supposed to be.

The door opened the second my finger hit the button. A flint-faced man dressed in a crumpled track suit confronted me. He had obviously just returned from a run.

“You are late,” he growled at me, accusingly as if I had deliberately set out to cause trouble.

I was sweating from the heat of the fine sunny day and was a bit out of breath after hurrying to find the address.

“What the f**k’s it got to do with you?” It just came out. I hadn’t intended to say it, I just did. I do have a temper and sometimes it can get me into trouble. Often I regretted it later. The man gave me a look like thunder and pushed me in the shoulder towards a door at the end of a hallway.

“Get in there, this instance.”

I turned the handle and opened the door.

Bloody hell. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was a full-sized classroom.

There sat at their school desks were seven other Revision Class pupils; all of them my age, and, of course, all dressed in their short trousers and school uniforms.

In front of them stood the tutor, dressed in a traditional schoolmaster’s academic gown, with a mortar-board topped a bit unsteadily on his head. He had a piece of chalk in his hand and was writing something on a blackboard.

The schoolroom consisted of about twenty school desks. I don’t know which period from history they belonged to, but we had definitely travelled back in time.  The boys were sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so a boy could stash away his schoolbooks.

Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

The tutor stood in front at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books. Next to it screwed to the wall was a specially-constructed rack holding five or six crook handled canes of various sizes.

Around the walls were educational posters, including a map of the world, which highlighted most of the countries in pink.  The floor was bare varnished floor boards

The tutor stared at me as I came through the door.

“You are late,” he thundered.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the place.” I heard a snigger or two from my fellow classmates.

“You are not wearing school uniform.”

I held up my plastic carrier-bag by way of explanation.

The tutor let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t say anything, but walked to the shelf behind his desk and picked up an enormous plimsoll. I don’t think I’d ever seen one like it before, it was one of those white shoes people used to wear for PE classes in the long-distance days before trainers had been invented.

He flexed the plimsoll in both hands. I could see it was huge. What giant’s feet had worn this for gym in the past? Did they really make shoes in size sixteen!

“Put down that bag and face the class.”

I did as I was told. For the first time I could look at my fellow pupils. I could see Harry, he of the knockout smile, flashing away in the third row, but I didn’t recognise any of the others. Apart from the undoubted fact that we were late teenagers dressed in short trousers and school uniforms we probably looked like any group of kids you were ever likely to come across.

They sat in silence waiting for the drama to unfold.

“Bend over and touch your toes.” Of course, I wasn’t surprised by the command. I moved my feet a foot or two apart and bending from the waist stretched the tips of my fingers to reach my toes.

He tutor had a perfect view of my pert seat covered in tightly-stretched corduroy. My classmates could see the top of my head and would be able to get a great view of any flinching I made as the tutor laid into my backside with his giant plimsoll.

And they were loving it. And, so, let’s be honest about it, probably would I if the roles had been reversed.

Whack! The first thwack of the slipper connected with my bum. It knocked the wind out of me a little, but I didn’t move.

The second and third smacks hit on my left cheek and then the right. My classmates were openly grinning as they enjoyed the spectacle of one of their fellows going through his punishment.

He gave me six whacks with the slipper. I took it well: I was getting used to the tutor’s beatings. I could hardly credit it, but before the tutor came into my life I’d never been spanked in my life – now look at me.

He told me to stand up and instructed me to leave the classroom and change into my short trousers and put on my school tie.

“And be back within two minutes or I shall give you a further six with your trousers at your ankles.”

I believed him. I left the room and in the hallway outside changed into my school uniform. I had just enough time to inspect the damage from the slippering. Both cheeks were bright red and I knew from experience that by the time I got home that evening they would be covered in bruises.

When I returned to the classroom the tutor was starting the lesson. He pointed to a seat in the second row and instructed me to sit. The desks weren’t designed to accommodate young adults so I had to squeeze my knees under the desk and slide along the wooden bench to settle as best I could.

It was going to be a very dull day. The tutor’s idea was to cram as much information into our stupid heads as would be enough to get us through the exams and it seemed that would mean lots and lots of rote learning.

The next half hour was pretty uneventful, the tutor droned on at his blackboard and we, for the most part I suspect, didn’t pay too much attention. Then the tutor gave us an exercise to do from a text book. This mostly consisted of copying things out and memorising them for a test he would give us after Play Time.

We worked on silently. Suddenly the silence was broken by the shrill eagle-eyed tutor.

“Rake,” he rapped out, “What have you got in your mouth!”

Bob Rake, a boy sitting behind me, responded.”Mmmmmmm!” He couldn’t say much more as a lump of toffee was firmly fixed between his teeth.

“Answer me immediately, what have you got in your mouth?”

Mmmmmmm!” Bob was trying hard to dislodge the toffee.

“Disgusting boy. Your mouth is full of toffee. Come out in front of the class.”

There was dead silence in the class. Bob Rake reluctantly rose from the confines of his seat, scratching his bare knee on the desk in the process. Ouch! That hurt, but it would be nothing in comparison to what the tutor had in store for him.

The tutor picked up a small, thin cane from the rack. He swished it and tested it, as if to make sure it was in good condition for a severe beating.

“Face the class.”

Bob was a fat boy and looked even more ridiculous in his short trousers, school shirt and tie, then the rest of us. His flabby belly stretched the buttons of his white shirt, the tail of which hang out from the bulging waistband of his shorts.

Bob faced us; we could see fear in his eyes.

“Which hand do you use to write?”

Bob hesitated, before realising the importance of the question.

“The right hand, Sir.”

“Hold out your left hand.”

Bob backed away, but the tutor grabbed him and pulled him forward.

“Do as you are told you disgusting boy. Hold out your hand.”

Reluctantly, this time Bob obeyed quietly.

The cane went down with a Swish! It was a savage cut.

There was a deep-drawn intake of breath in the classroom as the lash of the cane rang through the classroom. A spasm of pain passed up Bob’s arm, his hand closed convulsively, his elbow drooped. Bob let out such a Yowl! we could see the fillings in his teeth. He doubled up, hugging his hand to his chest.

“Hold out your hand again.” Bob hesitated and turned to his classmates with pleading eyes. If he expected any one of us to intervene in his punishment he was sorely mistaken. We were loving it: me too. They had enjoyed seeing me take my whacking, so it was only right I had some pleasure too.

Reluctantly, Bob held out his now swollen and scorching hand again.

Swish! Once more the fat boy received a stinging cut to his hand. He roared, jumped up in agony, bent down and shoved his hand under his armpit.

“Let this be a lesson to you, if I ever see you with toffee in your mouth again I will punish you more severely.  Now go to your seat,” the tutor roared.

Bob stumbled as he returned to his seat, his face quite pale and his hand smarting and tingling.

We got on with our work in silence.

You can’t put a group of eighteen-year-old boys together in an old-fashioned classroom, dress them up as primary school children and not expect them to behave as they look.

It was coming up to mid-morning Play Time, where we would have a fifteen-minute respite from what was a really dull day. Most of us boys were getting very restless. The tutor stood in front of the class at the blackboard with his back to us, writing notes on the importance of something or other.

I could feel one of boys sitting behind me was particularly fidgety. He seemed unable to keep still for a second. I turned round and saw he had discovered that the inkwell on his desk, actually contained ink. Who knows why there was ink, I doubt if any of us boys had used a fountain pen in his life, let alone one of those sharp nibbed jobs that you had to dip into the inkwell every time you finished writing a sentence.

He was soaking a piece of tissue in the ink. What was he up to? Soon, we were all to discover. He was constructing an ink pellet and he was making a right mess of it. I turned back to my work.

Behind my back, the boy was preparing his plan. He made an ink ball from one entire tissue, and anyone who has ever used a tissue before knows one of those can hold an awful lot of whatever it is you care to heave into it.

I turned around again and saw the boy had chosen his target. On the other side of the classroom was a rather small, ginger haired fellow sitting alone at one of the single desks.

I’d never met either of the boys before and didn’t know them from Adam, but instinctively I knew they were more than acquainted with one another. And equally, I could tell who between them was the bully and who was the bullied boy.

He took up his ruler and held the ink pellet in place at its top end so he could shoot it at Ginger, who was day-dreaming about who knows what?

He kept one eye on the tutor’s back to make sure he was still busy chalking away at the blackboard, pulled back the plastic ruler and let fly with the ink-ball.

It whizzed. Unfortunately, it didn’t fly and hit Ginger. The boy had a rubbish aim: instead of hitting its intended victim square on the head, the ink-ball veered off course and landed at the tutor’s feet.

I breathed in and held it there. There was trouble ahead. The only saving grace for the boy was that the ink-ball hadn’t struck the tutor about the body.

The tutor stopped his chalking.

“What – what – what?” he exclaimed, truly lost for words. It took him a second or two to weigh up what had happened and when he did the expression on his face was terrific.

I couldn’t see the boy behind me, but he had turned quite pale at the realisation of what had happened and of the obvious consequences to his hide if the tutor discovered who had thrown the ink-ball. But, he had the presence of mind to hide the ruler, ink and tissue supply from the tutor’s sight.

The tutor stared at his pupils and we all stared back at him. Not all of the boys had realised what had happened, but it soon became clear to everyone. The ink-ball was a huge one and a small puddle of blue/black ink had formed where the soggy tissue had come to rest at the tutor’s feet.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor’s voice was not loud, but deep. He had command of the room and there was no mistaking the fact. He genuinely believed he had been the intended target of the attack and he was not prepared to let the matter rest until he had discovered the culprit and administered to the boy a severe thrashing.

There was no answer from the form. I could feel my face glowing hot. Would the tutor notice and misinterpret my blushing as a sign of guilt? I bowed my head and stared at my desk.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor spoke louder this time, his fury growing as he was met by silence from his pupils.

The tutor sucked his lips into a tight line. He strode to the top of the class and picked from the rack an awesome rattan cane. Then he faced the class again.

“Every boy will stand up!” he rapped.

Without question we all did as commanded.

“Every boy will raise his hands with the palms outward.”

I knew the boy was done for now. His palm would be as black as coal. He had no escape.

The tutor scanned the hands: it didn’t need a gimlet-eye to find the one covered in ink. He could see one boy did not have his palms raised.


“Yes, Sir.”

“Hold up your hands at once.”

All we boys turned to look at Rawlings.

The distressed Rawlings put up his hands. The tutor’s eyes fixed on the inky palm, the inky finger, the inky thumb with a glare. His grip tightened on his cane.

“Rawlings! Stand out in front of the class.”

“I didn’t mean it for you, Sir,” Rawlings stammered.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

“I meant it for Trevor, Sir.”

“This instant, Rawlings!”

Rawlings left his desk and stood limply before the tutor. The tutor pointed to an unoccupied school desk with his cane.

“Bend over that desk.”

“I really never meant it for you Sir — it was an accident — I meant it for that tick — I mean, Trevor.”

“BEND OVER!” thundered the tutor.

Rawlings bent limply across the desk. The desk was not designed for a full-sized adult and it was low enough that he could very nearly touch the floor in front of him. He grasped with both hands a wooden support that ran the width of the desk, just a few inches from ground level.

To reach this position, Rawlings had to go on tip-toe to stretch all the way across the top of the desk. His stocky torso fitted perfectly across the length of the desk, allowing him to rest the groove of his stomach against the edge. In this position his bottom was raised high at an angle to receive his thrashing.

Rawlings had a chunky round bottom and in his present position his grey cotton short trousers fitted tightly across his bum cheeks. From where I was sitting I could see his shorts had an elasticated waist, which seemed a little snug and had the effect of pulling them that little bit tighter into the contours of his buttocks. The tutor would see clearly the outline of the boy’s underpants through them.

The tutor gripped the cane with a tight fist: it wasn’t only Rawlings who was going to go through a white-knuckle ride.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The savage cane rang across his backside like cracks from a rifle.

Rawlings Howled! And he Howled! And he Howled! You could probably hear his yells all over the house. No, all over the street. No, all over the town.

Swipe! Yow-ow-ow! Rawlings wriggled. The tutor didn’t care; in his present frame of mind he would gladly have cut him to pieces.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The tutor was too furious to care how much he was hurting Rawlings.

He gave him nine thunderous cuts across the seat of his short trousers. Rawlings did not take it well, he was sobbing, begging the tutor for mercy. But, mercy was in short supply this day.

We all watched spellbound. I don’t think any of us got enjoyment from this scene. Unlike the other corporal punishment dealt out today this was vicious. Unmerciful. Cruel.

I actually felt sorry for Rawlings. He had played the fool with the ink-ball incident, but genuinely, he had not meant it to hit the tutor. It wasn’t an attack on him and his authority and his right to be leading a class of nearly secondary school dropouts.

But, what I didn’t know much about Rawlings, but the tutor did. There was history here. Rawlings was a bully. This flogging was for all the boys at his school whose lives Rawlings made a misery every day. It was for ginger-haired Trevor who had suffered under Rawlings from the first day they both attended classes with the tutor.

Poor Trevor, Rawlings despised him and took it upon himself to humiliate him at every turn. Rawlings attacked Trevor because he thought he was “ginger” in nature and not just by his hair colour.

If I had known any of this, I would gladly myself have given Rawlings twice the number of strokes, twice as hard – and on the bare.

The tutor stopped after nine strokes. Rawlings was a broken boy. He lay over the desk sobbing with great convulsions of his body as he tried desperately to take in air.

“Stand up and return to your place.”

Rawlings stood limply in front of the tutor. Clearly suffering he crawled his way back to his own desk, where, until the bell went for Play Time he wriggled like an eel.


Episode 3 is here


Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

Caught in their underpants

The shoplifter

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second