The Spanking Vicar 4. Missed curfew

Rev Crick paced his study in silence. The heavy tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock echoed around the room. With slightly trembling hands he reached into his cigarette packet, extracted a Capstan Full Strength and lit it from the stub of one already between his lips.

Ten minutes past twelve. When that boy arrived home, he would give him such a caning. He stared at the clock as the second hand dragged up to the twelve hand. Eleven minutes past twelve: where the hell was he?

Bob’s curfew was ten-thirty; it always had been; ever since he moved in as the vicar’s paying guest. The damn boy knew that.

He sat back in his armchair, trying without success to relax. Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock droned on and on.

It was cold and rain was starting to drizzle. Bob, his jacket collar turned up against the elements, trudged down the main A-road from Tylesbury to the village. The buses had stopped running hours ago and it seemed now all respectable people were tucked up in bed – which is where he should be. Why weren’t there any cars on the road? Why couldn’t he thumb a lift? At this rate would have to walk the whole five miles to the vicarage and whatever Rev Crick had in store for him.

What a miserable night it had been; and it wasn’t over yet.

It had been a woman, of course. A lovely young thing, she was. The nineteen-year-old had lost count of how many drinks he bought her. He knew he had missed his curfew, but he was in with a chance. Of that he had convinced himself. What a fool. The last bus left, the pub closed and she waved goodnight and went home with her friends, leaving Bob bereft. The prick teaser. Women, he assured himself, they were all the same.

At last he was home; damp and footsore. Damn, the downstairs light was blazing. Rev Crick was up. Waiting.

The vicar pulled hard on his cigarette and stubbed it out alongside a dozen others in the ashtray when he heard a key turn in the lock. Thank the Lord, he whispered. The boy was home safely. Now, all thoughts of prison cells or the mortuary slab were dismissed.

Rules were rules and punishments were most effective, the reverend believed, when delivered immediately after the offence had been discovered.

“Wait outside my study,” Crick told Bob even before he had finished taking off his coat. Bob stared blankly. He didn’t know exactly what was in store for him, but he knew it would result in a very sore bum.

“Come in,” the vicar ordered when he arrived at the study.

The two of them entered. “Stand there,” the vicar indicated a spot in front of his desk. He sat down and interrogated the boy about his whereabouts, and why he was late. He satisfied himself that no other offence had been committed beyond the late curfew.

Crick reached into his desk drawer and took out a key, then moving towards the tall cupboard within the book shelves he unlocked the door.

Bob already knew what the cupboard contained: an array of disciplinary instruments, including a large number of swishy rattan canes, most of them with the traditional school crooked handle.

Crick ran his hands across several, taking his time to select the right cane for the job. He chose one that was slightly longer and thicker than most of the others. Satisfied, he closed and locked the cupboard door and pocketed the key.

He turned to face Bob and rather dramatically swished the cane several times in thin air. It had the desired effect: Bob, who usually had a ruddy complexion paled significantly.

He pointed with the cane. “Go stand by the Chesterfield,” he ordered.

The couch was a huge padded beast and Bob was unsure whether he would be tall enough to reach over its back in the required position to receive his thrashing. He hesitated.

“The other side,” Rev Crick indicated the arm of the Chesterfield. That would be big enough to accommodate Bob and give him ample room to raise his big bum high for the cane.

“Bend over.” It was a stern order and one to be obeyed.

Bob stretched over the arm of the chair, secretly relived that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.

The vicar had quite a target to aim at. Bob might only be nineteen, but he was a strong man. In some parts of his body he had muscles on his muscles. Rev Crick admired Bob’s strong back stretched across the Chesterfield. His meaty buttocks were positioned high over the arm; they quivered a little as they awaited the inevitable agony the cane would induce.

The reverend was no sadist, but he believed that corporal punishment should hurt: a lot. Otherwise what was the point of inflicting it at all?

Bob folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them. He could feel a tap, tap on the stretched fabric of his trousers as the vicar tried to find his spot.

The vicar stood back a little to Bob’s left. He took aim, gently tapping Bob’s bottom with the cane. He then lifted it above his right shoulder, paused, and then all but threw his entire body into bringing the cane down across Bob’s vulnerable, waiting backside, right in the middle creating a red line. The teenager felt nothing for a split second before the pain exploded. His back arched as his head snapped back.

Bob’s whole body tightened as the next stinging lash cracked across the chunky mounds of his backside. His eyes closed, then opened again as the pain throbbed. Huff, huff, he drew in deep breaths in a failed attempt to deal with the pain with deep breaths; but he hurt and ached.

It took all his resolve to stay in position, head pressed down into the leather; his bum raised high submissively for the reverend to do his worst. Bob chewed his bottom lip and did not cry out, but tears were starting at the back of his eyes.

The lightning flash of the cane once more whipped through the air towards its waiting target. That was when tears escaped as Bob failed to cope with the pain which was nothing like he had ever felt before. Every sense in his body focused on the agony in his bum.

The reverend was taking his time. Slash, the whippy rod flew through the air landing with such a thwack, the sound of rattan on stretched trousers resounded around the study. The cane lit a burning white-hot stripe. Even through his trousers he knew the cane had made an effective welt across both buttocks.

The vicar might not be a sadist, but he was determined to make Bob pay for the worry he had caused. Three more strokes landed, each one a little lower than the previous, yet all in a one-inch band on the bottom half of Bob’s bum. As the final stroke cracked across his sore seat he let out a roar, all his restraint was gone and tears washed his eyes.

“It’s over”, Crick said. “You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Bob rose from the couch and gingerly straightened himself. Tentatively at first, he touched, and then carefully clasped, his raw and ravaged buttocks.

He was more or less in control of his feelings now, and was massaging his injured rump as vigorously as he could, trying to rub away the pain.

Rev Crick was satisfied with his handiwork. He was also relieved that the night had ended in a satisfactory manner. Earlier, he had visions of Bob laying in some hospital ward somewhere, the victim of an accident. But, that wasn’t the case. It was just Bob being thoughtless and forgetful and he had paid the price with a sore backside.

He slipped his arm around Bob’s shoulder. “It’s late, go to bed,” he said, ushering him towards the door.

Bob’s eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for his bedroom, where he would cry a bit more because his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.

He quickly crawled into his bed naked, flattened out on his stomach and sobbed himself to sleep.

Episode 5 is here

Previous episodes of The Spanking Vicar

Episode 1: the new tenant

Episode 2: the reckoning

Episode 3: the house call

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The casting couch

An acting student wants a break into the movies but must be prepared to do anything to get it

 

I know that to succeed as a television actor I have to make one or two sacrifices, but I don’t expect them to be at the expense of my dignity and my ass.

An international production company is casting for parts in a new teen drama. The characters will be set in a college and in the storyline they will be seventeen years old. The company wants actors who are over eighteen with a little bit of knowledge of the business, so have been asking drama colleges to send over suitably-qualified youngsters.

I am eighteen, a bit shorter than average height, with a fresh face. I can easily pass as seventeen and with my clear skin maybe even fifteen. I am slender, but I don’t work out at the gym because I don’t have to. There’s not enough spare fat on me to fry a sausage.

The cast of the new show which does not have a name yet, at least not one that has been announced, will be an ensemble. That means no one will be the star, all will have equal status. This could be a massive break for me, the show will run for an initial twenty-six episodes on a free-to-air network and the production company has an international reputation for successes in this type of show. It will almost certainly be sold overseas. It is an enormous opportunity for me as it represents fame, wealth and a big boost at the start of my career.

I go across town for an interview and an audition. Obviously, they are seeing a lot of people and I have to wait my turn. I am waiting in the hallway close to the room where the interviews are taking place when the door opens and a young man exits. He is ashen faced and it appears he may have been crying. Looks like he didn’t get the gig, I think.

I am called into the interview room. There are three people waiting for me and I immediately recognised Allen Mikelstein, from his picture in the trade papers. Mikelstein is a big hitter in this town; too big to bother introducing himself or the other people in the room. A woman with a clipboard checks my name and contact details. My credentials established, they ask what experience I have. They aren’t expecting much so I am honest and tell them I’m at drama school and I’ve been in a few stage plays and student films. Mikelstein is sweating buckets. I don’t understand why because the room is pretty cold, I think.

Am I imagining it, or can’t he keep his eyes off my legs. He speaks and asks me to stand up and turn around once or twice. Is he checking me out? I think he might be. I am only eighteen but I’ve been in this city all my life and I am not naïve.

Thank you, Mikelstein says, and hands me a piece of paper. On it is a scene that he wants me to act out with him. I mumble an apology that I haven’t had a chance to read it and I might not be very good. He flashes me a smirk and says, “Don’t worry.”

The truth is that these shows don’t necessarily want people with good acting ability, they want people who look right for the part and who they can rely on professionally. They will be churning out twenty-six episodes, one a week, so there is no room for primemadonnas. The actors will have to be obedient and do as they are told, without fuss. I’m their man, I think: clean cut and handsome, the boy next door, and I will do whatever they ask of me for a piece of this action.

We run through the script. It is a scene where the boy (me) is up before the college’s Dean of Discipline (Mikelstein).

I am startled; this cannot be a real scene from an episode of the show, the networks would never let this go to air.

Mikelstein starts off in character. He is berating me for cutting classes to head to the mall, why do I do it? I tell him the classes are boring and the teachers are hopeless.

He gets angry, says I must apologise. I tell him where to get off.

At this point he turns away from me and heads for a shelf in the corner of the room and picks up a paddle. It’s an ordinary board, the kind you would find in any school in the South.

He smacks the wood into the palm of his hand for emphasis as he scolds me some more. I can’t keep my eyes off the paddle. Is this really happening? What exactly is happening?

“Bend over grab your ankles,” Mikelstein tells me. I hesitate, my breathing is coming faster and my heart rate is quickening. I look at Mikelstein and he replies with his eyes, “Yes, you must go through with it.”

I understand what is going on now. I have to do this.

I stoop down from my waist and rest my hands on my knees.

“Grab your ankles boy!” Mikelstein seems to have come out of character. I part my legs a little and tightly grab hold of my jeans around my calves.

I feel Mikelstein move behind me, admiring the scene. I am only wearing ‘no name’ jeans but I know I look Hot! Hot! Hot! I can wear anything.

A don’t hear the paddle coming but feel an agonising pain as it connects across both buttocks, stinging each cheek equally. My eyes pop and I let out a gasp. Instinctively, I bolt upright to rub my flaming ass, but Mikelstein stops me mid-way and with a forceful shove in the shoulders, he pushes me back down, so once again I am staring at the stained floor tiles.

Whack number two hits, harder than the first, on almost the same spot. I tug at the legs of my jeans determined not to disgrace myself and try to stand up again. It hurts so much I have no words to describe it. I have never been in so much pain in my life.

Number three crashes down across the bottom of my ass, where the cheeks meet the thighs and I let out a scream, so loud, I am sure the people waiting outside the audition room must be able to hear it. Involuntary tears are forming behind my eyes and my whole body seems to be shaking. I am spent. Please, Mr Mikelstein, no more.

I didn’t say this out loud, but Mikelstein got the picture. I heard him replace the paddle on the shelf and he told me to stand.

I rise, my face bright red, from the exertions of the spanking and, probably, because my head has been upside down staring at the floor.

Mikelstein sits on a couch watching me as I furiously rub away at my tight throbbing buns. It is no use; the pain is going to be with me for a long time yet.

Mikelstein gestures that I should sit on the couch next to him. I can see he is sweating even more than before and his face is flushed. Still breathing heavily I gingerly put my butt on the couch, testing it for size to see if my raw ass can stand the pressure.

I wince as my backside takes the weight of my body on the couch. Mikelstein gives a creepy laugh. “Can someone get the boy a cushion?” Nobody moves, his two colleagues know he meant it as a joke.

Mikelstein sits up very close to me and our legs are touching. I am still in some distress and he puts an arm around me, drawing my head into his chest. I can smell his expensive aftershave. What will happen next? Am I going to have to let him come on to me?

The woman pipes up and says, thank you, you have passed the first part of the audition. Mikelstein lets go of me and the meeting becomes formal again.

There is a part two of the audition where I have to meet other possible cast members and TV execs and so on. She tells me they have to see if I will fit in. It seems that I have the looks and enough talent, but do I have the temperament? She writes down an address of a house in the Valley where there will be a party on Friday for everyone involved in the show. I am invited.

Friday is a sweltering hot day. I have no car so I hitch a lift to the house. I dress in a way I hope will delight Mikelstein: in short, short cut-offs and a yellow patterned shirt. If this audition turns out to be a battle of the buns between competing wannabe cast members, I am going to give myself a head start.

I arrive on time at a huge mansion. It has large gardens and a swimming pool. Towards the far end of the garden is something that looks like a lake.

I am astounded when a waiter with a tray of drinks approaches me. He is stunning looking, in his late teens or early twenties, and he is almost entirely naked. He wears a bow tie and a jock strap that hardly covers his assets and that is that. I realise all the other waiters are similarly dressed. As I take my drink (non-alcoholic, I need to keep a clear head, for whatever happens next) I hear the slap of a hand on flesh from behind me and swing round to find Mikelstein had slapped a waiter full on his pert buttocks.

The waiter flashes Mikelstein a smile to say that was the most wonderful experience he has ever enjoyed and, hey, if he wants to do it some more, just go ahead. The boy is a marvellous actor, better than I would ever be.

Lots of people come up to say hello, they are here auditioning like me. None of us quite knows what is expected of us so we are friendly to everyone just in case they turn out to be important.

An assistant to Mikelstein tells me it is my turn to see the great man and leads me into the house and up a spiral staircase to the first floor, where he leaves me in a room on my own. Mikelstein comes in, dressed casually in dark slacks, bulging at the waist, and a white patterned formal shirt. I feel very under-dressed in my cut offs, but he cannot keep his eyes off me: a result.

He offers me a drink (alcohol this time) and I risk accepting it. I want to seem friendly, but I don’t want him to think I might be a drunkard. He calls me by my name and says how much he enjoyed our last meeting. He grins as he says this. Yes, I remember our last meeting; there are still bruises on my ass.

He talks about the show and how he has a great part for me in it and what a great success it will be and what a great career I have ahead of me. He likes the word “great”.

Then he says for it to work I have to show that I can fit in. What did I think about that? I tell him I think it is “great”.

“I’ll do anything you want of me Mr Mikelstein,” I am not subtle. I want the lot: the fame, the money and the lifestyle that goes with it and I want it now.

“Anything?” he leers at me again. I drain the whiskey from my glass.

“Do you want another?” I do, to try to settle my nerves, but I say, “No thanks.”

He sits down on a couch. “Come closer,” he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “Are you a good boy?” He smirks at me. I don’t know how I am supposed to answer this, so I don’t.

“Or are you naughty?” Yet more leering. Suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.

“Naughty boys have to get their bottoms spanked.” With that he simply pulls me forward and down over his lap.

I could fight him, punch him in the face and high-tail it out of there. But, I don’t and I’m not ashamed of that. This is my ticket to stardom. And the journey starts here.

He pulls at the waist of my cut offs so the denim is even tighter across my buttocks and smacks down on my cheeks. I can’t feel I thing, but I don’t suppose I am meant to. They are more like ‘love pats’ than spanks. Mikelstein is enjoying feeling-up my pert bottom. He stops smacking for a while and gently rubs his hand around my two globes, measuring them up.

“Stand up.” He helps me up and I stand in front of him.

“Hands on head.” This is unexpected, but I do as instructed. He undoes the button of my cut-offs and they fall to my knees. Then he pulls me on top of him, so that I am stretched out across the couch with my upper body and arms resting to his left and my legs stretched out to his right. My bottom is high over his abundant thighs.

He spanks me harder this time. The first slaps connects into the centre of my left cheek and then the centre of the right and then he covers the whole circuit, from the top of the globes near the base of the spine, to the curves at the thighs. The thin cotton of my tight, white, briefs is no protection. Mikelstein is getting into his stride as he lands short, rapid spanks all over my buttocks and thighs.

My butt is warming up and as each successive swat falls across the tight cotton briefs, the pain increases. I am not in agony, the pain is nothing like the paddling he had given me, but gradually the soreness in my ass increases.

I am losing track of time, but he must have whacked on and on at my buttocks for five minutes or more, never letting up. Although I am feeling sore now and gasping a little, I don’t make a sound and nor does Mikelstein.

Suddenly, I realise I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I am an actor after all, am I meant to be playing a role here? Does he want me to holler and howl, like he is killing me? Should I plead for him to stop? “I will be a good boy Daddy, I promise.”

I am probably too late to change tack now: I am stuck with naturalism; my reactions are genuine, based on the real discomfort he is causing me. We had learnt about ‘naturalism’ in class, but I never expected this would be the first role where I would put it into practice.

Gently he pulls down my briefs to my knees, exposing my, by now very pink bottom. “What a lovely shade of pink,” Mikelstein pants. He caresses my buttocks, “and, so very hot. Ha! Ha! Ha!” He has made a joke.

He slaps on and on. Although I am now bare butt, the pain doesn’t get any worse. I am no expert, but I wonder if there is some limit to a hand spanking: the pain reaches a limit, but doesn’t go beyond it. The spanker’s hand is pretty sore too, so at this point he reaches for the hairbrush and takes the boy’s butt off with that.

Luckily for me, that isn’t Mikelstein’s plan: at least not for today, so he hand-spanks me for another few minutes until he is spent. He is breathing so heavily, I think he might be having a seizure. He holds tightly onto me, so I can’t get up. I don’t know what is happening; it may be that he is just taking a break before another onslaught.

But no, we are finished. He releases his grip and I stand before him. My buns are very tender. Remembering I am here to please Mikelstein, I perform a little dance, hopping from one foot to the other with my hands furiously rubbing my bum and my pepper bouncing up and down in front of his face.

The look on his face is a treat. He wants me. He wants me so bad.

I turn my back to him, so he gets a great view of my glory hole as I bend to my toes to retrieve my briefs. Slowly, I pull them up over my bright red buttocks, wriggling exaggeratedly as the soft cotton brushes them. Then, back to my feet again for the cut-offs.

I turn around to face Mikelstein so he can see me tucking my dick into my shorts.

His eyes pop.

“Please Mr Mikelstein, have I got the part?” I pucker.

“Oh yes boy. Yes.”

 

Other stories you might like.

Hotel duty manager

Yellow Pages spanking

A maintenance spanking

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.

He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.

The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.

It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s boarding house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.

They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.

The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”

The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.

That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.

The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.

Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.

“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.

“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?

The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.

Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.

That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.

“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.

James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.

Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.

“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.

“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.

“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.

The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.

Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”

He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.

“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”

James and Jacked joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.

“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”

Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”

Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.

“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”

The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.

So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.

It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.

“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.

The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?

“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.

The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.

Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”

James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”

Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?

Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.

It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.

There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.

He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.

Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.

It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.

“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?

A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.

The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.

He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.

He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.

Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.

That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.

The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”

The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and it would certainly be given caning to remember.

There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.

The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.

He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.

There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.

“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”

James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.

“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”

James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.

The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan moved a pace or two to his left, ensuring a clearer view.

Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.

No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.

James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.

Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.

His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.

With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.

The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.

The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.

The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.

Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.

“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.

That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.

In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.

The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”

Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.

With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.

The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.

No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bunyan too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.

The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.

The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.

James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?

The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?

“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”

Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.

The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient. He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.

And, that is precisely what the Commander did.

The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.

His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.

The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.

When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.

“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.

Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.

The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.

Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.

 

Other stories you might like.

 The office manager

The boys in the mailroom

The Senior Tutor

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

COMING SOON: The return of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh

Rev Crick paced his study in silence. The heavy tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock echoed around the room. With slightly trembling hands he reached into his cigarette packet, extracted a Capstan Full Strength and lit it from the stub of one already between his lips.

Ten minutes past twelve. When that boy arrived home, he would give him such a caning. He stared at the clock as the second hand dragged up to the twelve hand. Eleven minutes past twelve: where the hell was he?

Bob’s curfew was ten-thirty; it always had been; ever since he moved in as the vicar’s paying guest. The damn nineteen-year-old boy knew that.

He sat back in his armchair, trying without success to relax. Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock droned on and on.

 

Rev Crick, the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh; a quaint English village, is back on his rounds. 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.

But, he also takes time to keep the young men in his parish on their toes; nobody is safe.

Three new episodes start Monday 29 February 2016 and continue on Wednesday 2 March and Friday 4 March.

 

Episode 4. Bob, one of the vicar’s paying guests, has been trying to get into the knickers of a girl he met in a bar. He missed the last bus back to the vicarage. Rev Crick paces his study waiting for the nineteen-year-old’s return.

 

Episode 5. The vicar is at a church meeting, so while the cat’s away … But, he returns unexpectedly to find a party in full swing at the vicarage and Craig and Tommy naked except for their underpants. Empty cans of Watney’s Party-7 and Double Diamond bottles are strewn over the room. There can be only one outcome. Or can there?

 

Episode 6. The vicar receives a parcel. It is a super new three-tail leather taws. He can’t wait to use this magnificent specimen. What a pity (for them) that two eighteen-year-old sixth-formers from the Church of England school are founding stealing at the village fete.

 

Previous episodes of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are here.

Episode 1: the new tenant

Episode 2: the reckoning

Episode 3: the house call

The missed curfew

Mr Wilberforce sat in his favourite chair in the lounge reading the morning newspaper. He had left the door to the hallway open so he could catch Martin. His slipper was conveniently placed for the task he had to perform.

He heard Martin (“Marty”, if Mr Wilberforce was not displeased with him) quietly descend the stairs, as if on tip toe and intent to sneak out of the house unnoticed.

“Martin, come in here, please.”

Obediently, Martin entered the room. He knew he was for it. There was nothing he could do, except take what was coming to him.

“What time did you get in last night?”

No answer. Martin looked at the floor and twisted his hands behind his back.

“What have we said about curfew?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Martin still did not answer. This was not the first time he had been on the carpet because of the curfew.

Mr Wilberforce sighed and tried again, “What did I say would happen if you missed curfew again?”

This time there was a whispered response, “A spanking.”

“Speak up, Martin.”

“A spanking,” said a little more clearly.

“Yes, a spanking. You can’t say you were not warned.”

It was true; this wasn’t the first time Martin had missed his curfew; but it was only the second time he had been caught. Yes, he had been warned of the consequences of his actions: Martin knew he only had himself to blame.

“But, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Doh! I will decide when you are too old to be spanked.”

It was true, Martin was old enough legally go to bars and buy alcohol, but that wasn’t the point.

“We have rules in this house. They are very simple rules and you are required to obey them. You know that,” Mr Wilberforce berated Martin, who had no choice but to stand quietly and accept everything that was said to him. He couldn’t look Mr Wilberforce in the eye and continued to stare down at his own bare feet.

“And,” Mr Wilberforce went on speaking in an even tone, “you know the penalty when you disobey.”

Martin nodded, apparently sorrowfully, his face downcast. There could be no doubt now about what would happen next.

“You have wilfully disobeyed me. You were told you must obey your curfew and you deliberately ignored me. Isn’t that so?”

Martin nodded his agreement.

“Speak up lad. You wilfully disobeyed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin’s voice was so soft, Mr Wilberforce could hardly hear.

“Well that’s it then. You give me no alternative,” Mr Wilberforce rose from his armchair, crossed the room and pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the carpet. Then, he reached down to the shelf beneath the television set and picked up one of his slippers.

“Come on, you know the drill.”

Martin did indeed know the drill. This was not the first time he had been spanked and even though he was a veteran he still felt a surge of anxiety as he watched Mr Wilberforce take up his bedroom slipper before sitting himself down in the chair and adjusting his body to create a platform over which Martin would present his bottom for punishment.

“Stand there boy. Shorts and pants down.”

Martin moved a few paces so he was standing directly in front of Mr Wilberforce, who by now was squeezing his slipper in his right hand, demonstrating how flexible and springy an instrument it was. Martin couldn’t take his eyes of it; he knew how stingy it would be when it connected with his bared bottom.

The shorts were snug fitting and didn’t need a belt to keep them up, so Martin just had to undo a button on the waistband and they slid unaided by him first down his hips and then his buttocks to rest at his knees. Martin spread his legs by an inch and the shorts fell to his feet.

Mr Wilberforce watched as Martin then put his thumbs inside the elastic waist of his underpants and with a sharp flick of the wrist sent them down to meet his shorts.

“Yes,” he thought as Martin’s stood before him, naked from the waist down, “you are too old for a spanking, but you only have yourself to blame for this.”

His bottom was now fully prepared, but Martin knew he had to wait for Mr Wilberforce to give the next instruction; it was part of the ritual of spanking.

“Come, bend over my knee.” He had heard that command many times in the past, so many he really couldn’t count, but each time it was spoken his heart would race a little quicker and he would start panting.

Martin lowered himself across Mr Wilberforce’s lap. He was much shorter and thinner than the man who was about to spank him; Mr Wilberforce was easily tall enough to play basketball. Martin placed the palms of his hands flat down and stared into the faded carpet, then he raised his bottom as high as he could, giving his punisher a perfect view of his crack. That wasn’t the purpose of the manoeuvre; it was to give Mr Wilberforce the best-possible target to aim at.

Martin felt the man’s arm almost encircle his midriff, pinning him down hard against Mr Wilberforce’s huge thighs. Martin accepted he had deliberately broken the curfew rule and he deserved this spanking and he was prepared to submit his bared bottom to punishment. He had no intention of trying to escape his just deserts. But, he knew that sometimes in the past the agony of the spanking had been too much that despite his best intentions to be submissive he had kicked and flailed about fighting to free himself. Martin felt no resentment that Mr Wilberforce didn’t trust him to take his bare-bottom slippering with dignity.

It was a standard spanking. Mr Wilberforce usually delivered forty-eight hard whacks with his slipper, landing it all the way across the target area. By the time he finished, both cheeks would be scorching hot and bruises would already be forming. The sit-spot where the buttocks met the thighs and the thighs themselves would be imprinted with the shape of the slipper’s sole.

He spanked hard (there was no point otherwise) and from the first slap the pain seared through Martin’s body, travelling from the buttock and up his back and down his legs. After only two or three whacks the agony reached his brain, releasing endorphins and taking him on a high he could never reach with cannabis or the other drugs he sometimes took.

Forty-eight whacks with the slipper might reduce a novice to tears, but Martin was no greenhorn when it came to spanking. It hurt alright, yes, it hurt a great deal, but he could take it and besides the “high” he was on far outweighed any pain he was also experiencing.

Then it was over. Job done. Two toasted buttocks.

Martin lay motionless across Mr Wilberforce’s knees, palms still dug into the carpet, bottom raised high. He knew the spanking protocol: don’t move from the subservient position until given permission to do so.

He could feel Mr Wilberforce’s cold hand massaging the heat in his own buttocks. It felt rather nice. It was his punisher’s way of saying “Despite having injured you, I love you,” or something, he supposed.

“You may get up now. Get dressed.”

Mr Wilberforce studied Martin as he stooped down to retrieve his pants and shorts. It was as if it were the first time he had seen the wrinkles on his face or the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

 

Other stories you might like.

 Late home from school

My first spanking — aged 18!

The old boys

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rory and Alistair Ep 3. The Headmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its countless rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. The two eighteen-year-olds were more suited to the life of the boys in town.

They were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school.

They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Episode 1 is here. Episode 2 is here

 

Rory and Alistair were late for roll call. A buttock blistering was almost inevitable. The only chance they had was if Anderson was on duty.

Anderson was one of the laziest prefects at Willadong Academy. He wouldn’t be bothered to chase around after them.

It was another scorching day. The heatwave was breaking all records. The boys had been to the town. It was their only escape from the dreary conformity of the school. They were eighteen years old, but were not considered “senior boys.” They had no sixth-form privileges and would never become prefects. They were too unconventional for a place like Willadong.

They had spent the afternoon at Banjo’s. Banjo’s was a music shop. No, it was more than that. It was an unofficial social centre; a lifeline for many of the youngsters in town. It wasn’t exactly out of bounds to the Academy boys. It didn’t have to be. The boys were so conditioned and so “snobbish” they wouldn’t have been seen dead at Banjo’s. It was a place for the townie oiks to go, not the sons of minor aristocracy and the professional classes.

Rory and Alistair loved Banjo’s. They stood out like sore thumbs. But, the boys and girls didn’t care about social status: as long as you “dug” the music. And Rory and Alistair did. They and a gang of teen-aged youngsters had spent the afternoon jiving to the latest imported records from America.

Now, drenched in sweat from head to toes, they slowly made their way home. As “juniors” at the school they were forced to wear short trousers as part of the school uniform. Only the most senior boys, the prefects, were allowed long trousers. Who cared? That was what Rory and Alistair thought. The heat was so oppressive who would want to wear heavy flannel bags?

They carried their white school shirts and had abandoned their long knee socks. Apart from the short trousers and the flip-flop thongs on their feet they were as good as naked. Rory and Alistair were athletes. They were mainstays of the cricket team and both were strong swimmers. Rory’s strapping chest was well-defined, betraying his developed upper-body strength. His legs were strong and they went all the way up to his muscular buttocks.

Alistair loved Rory’s body. He couldn’t get enough of it. At night he would sometimes sleep with his pal in his arms. Rory loved the attention, especially when Alistair would hawk great gobs of spit into his hand and work it up and down Rory’s shaft.

The two boys sauntered down the country road, arms across each other’s shoulders. They were nearly at the school. Soon they would know what fate awaited them.

Anderson wasn’t on duty. It was MacDougal. MacDougal was ambitious. He had an eye on the school captain’s badge next year. He wasn’t about to let anyone off roll call.

Much as he would have loved to put a cane across both their backsides, he wasn’t permitted to do so. It was a pity, MacDougal thought. It was high time the pair learnt they were part of the school. The rules applied to everyone, even them.

MacDougal was brightened by a piece of news he had. “Dr Bruce wants to see you,” he smiled wickedly. “In his study.” And for emphasis, he added, “Now.”

It could mean only one thing. Dr Bruce was the school’s headmaster. He rarely had much dealing with the boys; outside of the Latin classes he taught the seniors. A summons to the study could mean only one thing to a boy: a sound flogging was imminent.

Even Rory and Alistair had never had the privilege of receiving a headmaster’s beating. It seemed that was about to change. But why now? The boys discussed it as they trudged miserably through School Hall and up the stone stairs to the headmaster’s study.

“It can’t be about roll call,” Alistair frowned. Rory loved it when Alistair frowned. He had such a beautiful open face and when he was baffled, as now, he looked so vulnerable. If they were back in the privacy of their room he would have smothered his pal with kisses.

“No,” Rory agreed. “He wouldn’t be bothered about that. It’s beneath his dignity …”

The boys giggled. Dr Bruce was a pompous, vain man. No, he wouldn’t sully his hands with everyday disciplinary matters. The boys must have committed an almighty crime.

They reached the heavy oak door of the headmaster’s study. Suddenly, the enormity of their plight hit them. What ordeal awaited them on the other side of this door? They halted, neither of them wanted to knock.

“You do it,” Rory whispered.

“No, you,” Alistair’s dreamy brown eyes sparkled. He was in a playful mood.

“You.”

“No, you.”

Knock, knock. Alistair’s grin was huge. His teeth sparkled. What if they were about to suffer a headmaster’s flogging. Who cared? They would go through the ordeal together. Brothers in arms.

“Enter!” The call from within the study was distinct. Rory turned the handle and opened the door.

It was a vast room. Despite the constant sunshine that shone in the world outside the study window, it was gloomy with dark oak bookshelves around three walls. A large desk, also made from oak, dominated the room and there were a number of small wooden chairs.

Two ancient horsehair armchairs were arranged around a small table. In the corner was a tall, thin, cupboard.

The study, indeed the entire school, was modelled on an ancient English public school. Such schools still existed, but Willadong seemed to be stuck in aspic; at around the year 1908.

Dr Bruce sat behind his desk dressed in a heavy three-piece suit. Perspiration ran from his hair and down the back of his neck. Usually, he wore a traditional academic gown and mortar-board cap, but even Dr Bruce had felt the need to abandon these garments to the heat.

Like so many boarding-school masters, he was of indeterminate age. His hair was grey and his face lined. The boys under his charge assumed he could easily have been seventy years old. Certainly, his attitude to the world around him was that of a very old man.

Dr Bruce had all the life experiences of a man who had lived in boarding schools his whole career. That didn’t deter him. He had the arrogance of a headmaster; of one who must be obeyed, by pupils and masters alike. His word was law. He was always right; even when so obviously he was not.

Rory and Alistair stood in front of the headmaster’s desk. Neither had yet guessed the purpose of their visit. One thing was certain to them. Whatever it was they had done, they would be leaving the study with very sore backsides indeed.

Dr Bruce sighed. It was as if he was personally carrying the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders.

“I have heard many things about you boys,” his clipped delivery was overly dramatic. Like headmasters throughout the ages and the whole world over, he was a bit of a ham.

Rory and Alistair stared down at their feet. What had he heard? Which of their numerous misdeeds had been brought to his attention?

“Many things,” he repeated himself. Then he paused for dramatic effect. “Disturbing things.”

He grimaced. “What do you have to say to that, eh, what?”

An uneasy silence pervaded the study, punctuated only by the heavy wheezing of the headmaster. He had the cough associated with a heavy smoker. At that moment he might have killed for a cigarette. And for a large glass of whisky.

“Look at me. Speak up, what do you have to say?”

Neither boy had the least idea what the headmaster meant.

Rory shrugged his shoulders. Alistair bit his bottom lip.

“How long have you been acting on these feelings?”

Alistair’s right eyebrow shot up, quizzically.

“Your friendship,” the headmaster coughed, “How long has it been going on?”

Rory stared at a spot on the window, behind the headmaster’s right shoulder. He couldn’t dare meet the old man’s eye.

Friendship? Rory pondered silently. How much did he know? But, he wasn’t about to ask him.

Headmasters, rather like the clergy, are among the most self-satisfied men on Earth. Dr Bruce had made his mind up. He was convinced he understood the situation perfectly. There could be no room for dispute.

He cleared his throat. “The world is a complicated place. You are young; merely children. This friendship you have is part of growing up.”

He paused to examine the faces of the two teenagers standing before him. They stared back, impassively. Undeterred by their blank expressions, Dr Bruce carried on.

“It is something that many boys of your age encounter. You might not understand that. These feelings will pass.”

Still Rory and Alistair stood emotionless. How had the headmaster found out? Who had been telling tales on them?

The answers to those questions would have to wait. The headmaster still had his duty to perform.

“But, these feelings are wrong. This is a serious smatter. It must stop.”

The headmaster rose from his large leather chair and moved in front of the desk and behind the boys. In unison Rory and Alistair swivelled their heads to follow his progress.

“Face the front!” he barked.

Although they could no longer watch the headmaster it was clear what he was doing. They heard a cupboard door open, and just as quickly it closed. Then there was an almighty whoosh! sound as the stale air in the study was parted.

“I am going to give each of you six strokes.” He swished the cane through the air once more.

“Turn and face me.”

He flexed the cane between his hands. It was a straight rod. Rory who was something of an expert in such matters thought it was nearly four feet long. It was denser than the canes other masters had used on him, but it easily bent into a perfect arc as the headmaster toyed with it.

“Stand by the bookcase.” Dr Bruce wobbled the cane to make sure the boys understood his instruction.

“Six-of-the-best,” the swished the cane through the air once more. It was a mightily whippy rod.

“You first MacDonald.”

Rory shuffled forward, uncertain what he was expected to do next. Should he arrange himself over the back of an armchair?

“Lower your trousers and underpants and bend over my desk.”

Jeez! Bare arsed. With that cane. The little beauty would certainly take his arse off, he was certain of that.

Seemingly impassive, but with his innards churning, Rory MacDonald breathed in a gulp of air. This would be the severest thrashing of his life. The first ever administered to him by the headmaster. At all costs he must act unperturbed.

Rory could hear the deep breathing of his pal behind him as calmly he unbuttoned his grey short trousers and let them slip down his legs. Then, making certain not to catch the headmaster’s eye as he did so, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants.

With his short trousers and underpants safely at his feet, Rory lifted the tail of his sweat-soaked white shirt clear of the target area and lent forward over the desk, jutting his backside out as if to welcome the cane.

The headmaster could not fail to see that the boy’s buttocks were as nut brown as the rest of his suntanned body. He thought better than to raise it as an issue just yet.

He gripped the cane tightly and rather like a golfer might, he swung the whippy rod at speed across the very centre of Rory’s bum. It sank into the muscle, leaving behind a deep red line.

Rory’s eyes widened and he clenched his teeth hard. Swipe number two followed on swiftly. Another deep mark instantly appeared. Rory made no movement. He had spent five years so far at Willadong Academy. He had developed a high pain threshold.

He remained silent for slashes three and four. A thick line of blood oozed from a particularly deep wound. Rory’s body shuddered slightly, but he made no outward sign that he was in pain. He determined not to give the headmaster the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. And, he would not let himself down in front of his pal Alistair.

The headmaster had a righteous duty. It was to save Rory from himself. This flogging was a moral obligation. He stepped back a pace, raised the cane high, swivelled his body at the waist and brought it swishing down, deep into Rory’s buttocks. It fell across two previous cuts and the flesh opened.

Only the merest twitching of his legs showed that Rory felt that one: the agony was terrific. His bum felt as if it had swollen to twice its natural size. Lines of pain shot up and down his legs. The aching in his head was almost as bad as the throbbing in his buttocks.

The sixth and final swipe was aimed low; close to where the underside of the cheeks meets the thighs. Rory choked down the bile that had risen to the back of his throat. He gulped down great draughts of air. His heart raced.

When he rose from the desk, his face was almost as scarlet as his backside. His dead eyes shone. Gently, he pulled up his underpants and eased them over his buttocks. The white cotton immediately turned pink.

Soon his short trousers were in their rightful position and he shuffled across the study and waited, watching quietly as his great friend Alistair dropped his short trousers and pants, bent himself across the headmaster’s desk and prepared to endure the same ordeal.

Five minutes later, back at their room the two naked boys inspected the damage. Their buttocks had never been so scarified. They had no ointment, so they improvised. Alistair rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Once it was heavy with saliva, he stuck it out and carefully, lovingly, washed his dear friend’s wounds.

 

Episode 4 is here

 

Other school-based stories you might like

New boy at school

A teenager’s tale

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Rory and Alistair Ep 2.The junior schoolmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life. The eighteen year olds were oddities at Willadong Academy. They were required to dress like juniors and would remain in short trousers until the day they left school. They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Episode 1 is here

Alexander Macaulay the junior schoolmaster stalked the passageways of Willadong Academy, a cane tucked under his arm. He was determined it would see action before the afternoon was out.

It was Wednesday and at Willadong that was a time for compulsory sports. If Macaulay found a boy in the building that would be excuse enough. If no abstainer was to be found he could instigate a room search, seeking hidden contraband. Cigarettes and alcohol and much else besides were strictly banned at the school.

Alexander Macaulay was an unhappy young man. This was his second month at the school and things were not going well. He was twenty-four years old; and to many casual observers indistinguishable from the senior pupils. He stood no taller than five-feet-seven-inches and was lean and wiry. His smooth complexion was deeply suntanned but the thin straggly moustache he sported belied his age. He was a boy trying to be a man. He did not possess the “gravitas” required to be a schoolmaster and probably never would.

The tingling he still felt in his backside confirmed this. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Less than thirty minutes previously he had been in the study of Willadong’s senior master Mr Henderson; bent across a stout desk, trousers at his ankles. Henderson swiped nine hard cuts across the junior schoolmaster’s swaying buttocks.

Henderson said it was “attitude.” Macaulay must “buck up his ideas.” He must show he was worthy of the title, junior master at Willadong Academy. Until such a time, Macaulay must expect to be treated as if he were a pupil. “Trousers down, bend over.”

Now, Alexander Macaulay was on the prowl. Somebody must pay for his humiliation.

Rory and Alistair lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms. They had had sex enthusiastically, but inexpertly. Alistair’s cock was stiff at a forty-five degree angle. It was ready for round two.

Fresh weals decorated the buttocks of the two eighteen year olds. They were the handiwork of Mr Anderson, their housemaster. It had been six on the bare. They were repeat offenders.

The pain had gone now, but there was one deep cut across the very centre of Rory’s bum that was tender to touch. The cane had landed on the same spot twice. A slash that landed across the back of his thighs troubled Alistair. That should teach him not to wriggle about during a caning.

Some boys were not suited to boarding school life. Roy and Alistair were two of them. There were too many rules and restrictions. The two pals were not resentful. They had broken curfew – again. Rules were rules at Willadong and when they were broken a lad would expect to be showing his arse to a prefect or a master.

Rory freed himself from Alistair’s embrace and lay face down on the bed inviting his chum to inspect his wounds. The teenager licked his own index finger and gently used it to trace from one end to the other of the deep welt across Rory’s bum. It had once been a deep pink, but now was mauve. It would turn purple soon, and then over the next few days it would lighten to yellow and finally disappear.

Alistair created a spit ball in his mouth and washed his tongue with it. Then he licked Rory’s cut, sending a shiver through the teenager’s body and leaving a slime trial across the buttocks. Rory’s cock throbbed almost as much as his bottom had just after his thrashing.

In the distance the school clock struck three o’clock. The boys were missing compulsory cricket practice. Who cared? What was another spanking between friends?

Rory turned on his back and Alistair snuggled up beside him. They took hold of each other’s cocks and tugged.

….

It was Wednesday afternoon; sports and activities day at Willadong. Rory and Alistair were keen cricketers and part of the school XI team. They should have been with their fellows practising. It was a scorching hot day; like so many that summer. The cricketers were broiling so had left their whites behind in favour of the shortest cotton running shorts they could find. Some wore vests but most were bare-chested.

Cpt Cameron their PT instructor and cricket coach was not a happy man. He had been absent from the school and had engaged a man called Villiars from the village to stand in. Cricket was a gentleman’s game but the sixth-formers at Willadong had been far from gentlemen to Villiars. Willadong boys considered themselves superior to the common man and were not about to be ordered about by a village oik like Villiars.

But now Cameron was back and he did not like what Villairs had told him. Not one little bit.

That was why six eighteen-year-old cricketers were lined up in the pavilion facing Cameron. The PT instructor held a dirty-white plimsoll tightly in his right hand. It was a large slipper and rather worn on the sole. It had seen much action on the running track and also across the bending backsides of errant sixth-formers.

He devised a little ritual. The eighteen year olds stood in a line, backs to the wall. Then on command each one stepped forward three paces towards Cameron. They swivelled on their heels, lowered their white shorts (none were wearing underpants in that heat) and touched their toes; knees straight. Three of the six teenagers wore no shirt so were totally naked bent over obediently with their tight cotton shorts in a puddle at their feet. It was a typical schoolboy ritual; each one presenting himself submissively to his master.

Schoolboy cricketers come in many shapes and sizes. There is no requirement to have an “athletic” body; “big and meaty” could as easily fit the bill. Six sets of naked buttocks were displayed that afternoon: fat and squashy; large and firm; pert and pimply.

Cameron had the perfect view of each boy’s cock and balls and, of course, his crack. But the middle-aged ex-Army officer was not interested in any of that. Discipline and punishment were uppermost in his mind. He gripped the plimsoll tightly and whacked it down across flesh. Two spanks on the left cheek; followed by two on the right.

Then, the boy stood, pulled up his shorts and went back to the wall, to be replaced by the next boy.

And so it went on until all six teenagers had the dark pink outline of the slipper emblazoned across both buttocks.

It looked spectacular, but it didn’t really hurt. Not like four slashes from the headmaster’s special Malacca cane would have if he had learned of the boys’ discourtesy to Villiars.

….

Alexander Macaulay was despondent. Somebody must pay for his humiliation. He had searched the classrooms without success. No boy was to be found. Now, he made his way through the living quarters. Again, there was no sign of life.

He searched through the study rooms. The boys seemed to have very few personal possessions. For the sons of the wealthy they were very poor indeed, he concluded. The boys would have found the junior master’s naivety touching. They were wiser than that. No self-respecting boy would leave contraband in his room for prying eyes to find. It was secreted in cubbyholes and nooks and crannies across the school; places unknown to the likes of Alexander Macaulay.

He was close to the end of his tour. Only one passageway was left unexplored. The junior master let himself into an unlocked room. As with the others, there was not much there. He opened and closed cupboards and drawers. He was exasperated with himself: what had he expected to find?

Idly he pushed a textbook across a desk. The corner of a picture poked out from between its pages. He tugged it free. It was a page ripped from a magazine. A picture. A captivating photograph.

Two young men, in their twenties, standing side by side grinned at the camera. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were sailors. At least they wore sailors’ hats on the backs of their heads, but little else besides. Only the shortest of denim shorts. The waistbands were unbuttoned and their zippers lowered, enticingly. Their chests were hairless and stomachs tight and flat.

The boy on the right was particularly enchanting. His dark curly hair fell across his forehead emphasising his dreamy brown eyes.

Carefully, Macaulay folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket. Then, fearing he might be caught, he tip-toed from the room.

There was now only one room left unvisited.

Voices. He could hear voices from behind the door. Success. Finally. His afternoon would not be wasted.

Had the junior master been less junior; he would have recognised the room, if not necessarily the voices of its occupants. And, he would have known better than to burst open the door without warning.

Rory and Alistair lay naked. Spent. Breathing hard. Their exertions had been great. Semen covered each boy’s stomach.

Alexander Macaulay stood in the doorway startled. Instinctively, his eyes focused on Alistair’s cock. The junior master had seen nothing like it before. It was flaccid and limp, but even relaxed it was an awesome specimen. And uncut. He had never before seen an uncut cock.

Macaulay blushed deeply. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not get words to form.

Rory raised himself to a sitting position. He stared at the intruder to his room. He only vaguely knew the identity of the stranger. The cane tucked under the junior master’s arm confirmed he was trouble.

“Wha.. wha…?” Macaulay tried again to speak, aware that he could not stop gaping at the two naked sixth-formers before him. One of them, not the one with the huge cock, reminded him of the boy in the picture.

Rory flashed a grin, his dark brown eyes sparkled, but he said nothing, silenced by the sight of the bulge now growing in the front of the visitor’s trousers.

Alistair had seen it too. The caller was quite attractive in a nerdy shy way, he thought.

The junior schoolmaster slipped the cane from his arm into his hand, as if ready for disciplinary action.

Rory roared with laughter.

Macaulay stood rooted, unsure what to do next. He watched as Alistair sat up and the two boys embraced; just like the two sailors. The throbbing in his pants was excruciating.

Alistair giggled, “Don’t stand there all day. Get your clothes off. You can squeeze between us.”

He stopped short, felled by the Macaulay’s face of thunder. The junior schoolmaster wanted revenge for his earlier humiliation. Now he was going to get it.

“No!” He had found his voice at last. He might have been a schoolmaster for only two months, but he understood and relished the power he had over the two teenagers. They must submit to his cane. The consequences of refusal would be dire: a flogging from the headmaster and possible expulsion from the school.

Macaulay swished the cane through the air. He stared Alistair in the eye and slowly and deliberately said, “Let’s have you on your feet and over that chair.” He wobbled the cane at a small straight-backed chair.

To his delight, the boys rose from the bed without question. Alistair clutched the chair and placed it in the centre of the room.

Macaulay’s heart raced. He had never felt such power before. The boys would submit to his will. He watched Alistair make the preparations and start to bend his body over the chair.

No, Macaulay thought. I’ll do the cute one first.

“You,” he pointed at Rory, realising that he didn’t know the names of either boy before him. “You first.”

Rory smiled. It nearly broke the schoolmaster’s young heart.

Rory didn’t fit in at Willadong Academy. It did not suit his personality, but he rarely resented the treatment he received at the school. He broke the rules, he got punished and life went on.

But, not this time. Rory was not a man of the world, but he understood enough. The throbbing cock beneath the schoolmaster’s trousers did not lie. Macaulay was about to beat him on the bared backside for his own sexual gratification. Later, the schoolmaster would pleasure himself while he relived this afternoon in his head.

Rory despised Macaulay for his hypocrisy. He would thrash him and his friend for fooling around. Yet, the schoolmaster so clearly wanted him.

Even before Rory gripped the hard wooden seat, he had devised a plan. Later, sometime soon, he would entice the schoolmaster to a dark secluded part of the school. He knew many such places. Macaulay wouldn’t be able to resist. It wouldn’t take long. A schoolmaster. Sex. A male pupil. There was no need to spell it out.

Rory closed his eyes, clamped his teeth shut and offered up his already corrugated buttocks to the lash of the cane.

 

Episode three will be published Friday 19 February 2016

 

Other school-based stories you might like

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

Kevin revisits his old school

The old boys

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com