Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, has exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (see story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. Now read on …

The pain of the spanking had gone hours ago, but the journey on the train on hard unpadded seats had been uncomfortable. Max was in a dream. Something that he hardly recognized had been stirred inside him.

Now, back in his bedroom he couldn’t wait to inspect the damage and Max fumbled with the bib of his shorts. It was a glorious sunny day and he wore the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. The bib at the front fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug-fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath.

They weren’t the easiest shorts to get out of. At last they were at his feet and his briefs were at his knees. Wow! Max didn’t say it aloud; there was nobody with him to say it to. But Wow! Both buttocks and the back of his thighs were a mass of blue and purplish bruises. Not one spot on his previously creamy-white buttocks had been spared. Gingerly, he ran the tip of his index finger across the curves, wincing as he touched particularly tender spots.

He rested his hands on his knees and pointed his bottom out behind him. He turned away from the mirror and peered over his shoulder affording himself the best view yet of his glorious, but battered, arse.

It was a magnificent specimen. It was better without the bruises; but even as it stood the nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter knew it was something special. He was a fit lad in two senses of the word: he did press-ups and sit-ups every morning before breakfast and cycled everywhere. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his whole body to sizzle a sausage.

He rubbed the palm of his hand across both buttocks to give himself the thrill of reignited pain and without warning his cock started to swell. It wasn’t really an erection, but his penis was thinking about it.

Max could not get the events of the afternoon out of his mind. The journey out to Harkensbury in the middle of nowhere to find the pervert policeman had been a complete success. Max’s trip across PC Snodgrass’s knee and his whacking with the hairbrush had been caught on tape. He had, as newspapermen like to say, “a scoop.”

Max picked up the tape recorder, plugged in the earphone and set it to play.

“I can spank your backside for you.” It was the voice of PC Snodgrass and the prelude to Max’s first-ever spanking. The boy lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and relived every whack and yelp of it.

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom.” It was Snodgrass’s voice again. In his mind Max could see the dirty carpet in the policeman’s house and he could feel his own bottom raised as high as it would go. The tape picked up every slap of the wooden hairbrush as it crashed at speed into Max’s pert muscular bottom.

Suddenly, without warning, his cock grew so strong Max thought it was going to fly off his body. Breathless, he laid his head back in the pillow and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Only now and for the first time could he admit something to himself. It wasn’t a secret as such, but he knew he wouldn’t want people to know. He had a “thing” about spanking. Max couldn’t explain it; he didn’t understand it; but he knew it was true.

He had been having these dreams; about his eighteen-year-old brother mostly. The boy had been taking things from Max’s room without permission. So, over Max’s knee he went for a hard bare-bottomed spanking. Jesus! Max knew there was something weird about this and he should never tell anyone about it. What would Kenny say if he knew his brother dreamt of spanking him?

Max closed his eyes and conjured up the vision of Kenny naked except for his tight underpants bent submissively across Max’s lap as a springy bedroom slipper popped up and down into his buttocks. Max’s cock rose and instinctively the boy started rubbing.

Next door, in his own bedroom, his brother Kenny was also on his bed, shorts and underwear long since discarded, working his Vaseline-smeared palm up and down his member. In his head Kenny and Max are in the living room of their family home, bent across the back of the sofa. Their shorts are at their feet and pants bunched just below the buttocks. Kenny is humiliated; not only is he being spanked in front of his brother, he is getting it with his brother.

Their mother, a large matronly woman, whips a switch she has cut from the garden especially for the purpose; first into Kenny’s left cheek, then into his right. Then Max’s left; then his right. Then again and again and again. The boys are howling fit to bring the ceiling down, but their mother is on a mission.


Something was seriously wrong. Max could not get his todger to behave. It was permanently erect. He soaped another one off in the bath and hoping it might be a good boy now, he set off, as arranged, to meet Mr Arbuckle, the deputy editor of the newspaper.

It was a warm summer’s evening and Saturday, so they had agreed to meet at Arbuckle’s home; a cottage in its own grounds on the outskirts of town. Max had never visited the aging bachelor before; he had no reason to. Arbuckle was older than his dad, what would they have in common?

Arbuckle sat at the window, whisky glass in hand waiting for the boy. He was late; they had said seven-thirty; it was close to a quarter-to-eight. He hated people who could not be punctual. Newspaper reporters should always be on time; it was a golden rule.

He was ready to heave himself out of his comfortable armchair to replenish his glass when he spotted the bicycle. His heart skipped a beat; he had never seen Max like this. Gone were the formal jacket and dark grey trousers, collar and tie, that Max wore to the office. Here was a sun-tanned Adonis. The boy wore white sport shorts with a red trim and a matching sleeveless vest. And what shorts they were: Arkwright had underpants that covered more of his body. The boy’s muscles rippled as his legs rose and fell turning the pedals, mesmerising the old man.

Within seconds Max was at the door dismounting his bike. For the first time Arkwright glimpsed the firm pert buttocks, bursting against the tight white cotton of the shorts. He couldn’t be sure: was the boy not wearing underpants?

“Here have a drink,” without waiting for a reply Arkwright thrust a large glass of whisky into Max’s hand. The teenager wasn’t much of a drinker and would have preferred a glass of water; the cycle ride had been hot and dusty. But, drinking with his boss made him feel grown-up, so he took it.

Arkwright took a long gulp from his own glass. “So give me all the gory details. Was he the ‘spanking policeman’ after all?”

Max sipped hesitantly at the whisky. Suddenly with all the excitement of the day he realised he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and the alcohol was already going to his head.

Arkwright drew on his glass as Max recounted the details of the day. The teenager sipped at his whisky and hoped his trooper would behave. Wearing his cycling shorts might not have been such a good idea.

Arkwright’s eyes were blazing. “Tell me again, do we have everything on tape? Can you clearly hear the hairbrush spanking into your bare bottom?”

“Oh, yes!” Max was proud of his work; he had exposed a perverted policeman and had paid with his own arse to do it. “Every last sound.” His eagerness to recount every last detail to the elderly man was obvious.

Arkwright drained his glass, stood and crossed the room to refill it. “Do you have the tape with you now?”

“No, it’s at home.” Max could feel Arkwright’s sense of disappointment. And his own; he would have loved to have played the tape to his boss and to relive the whole experience one more time.

“Here, drink up. Let me freshen you up.” Arkwright waited for the boy to gulp down the whisky and splashed a triple measure in the glass.

Max shouldn’t have drunk so quickly; the alcohol went straight to his head and he could feel the room spinning a little.

“So, you’ll be claiming from the paper for industrial injury will you?”

Max knew it was meant as a joke and joined in. “Oh yes, sir, and I’ll claim for the cushions I had to use to sit on.”

He really was a delightful boy, Arkwright hadn’t noticed before. He had a fresh open face and rather infectious grin. Max’s skimpy clothes showed off his muscle-tone to perfection. He was making the old man rather horny.

“Show us the damage then!” It was said with a grin. Arkwright was still joking. A little.

Max beamed. “Give us a bob and I’ll show you my bum.” He giggled as the words come out his mouth. It was something the girls used to say when they were kids; why had he suddenly remembered that?

Yes, such a delightful boy. Arkwright put down his glass, delved into his trouser pocket and found a coin. He tossed it across the room and Max caught it.

“What’s this,” the boy’s grin widened. It slashed his face from ear to ear. He knew very well what this was.

“It’s a shilling. Show us your bum.”

In devilment, Max stood up, turned his back on Arkwright, bent a little at the waist, pointed his bum at the man and pulled his shorts and pants down to below his buttocks. Then, he did a little dance, wobbling his bare cheeks from side to side. Then he covered up.

Arkwright gaped. “Oh my yes, it is a bottom crying out to be spanked. Come here.”

Their eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need.

Max flashed a smile. That grin again. “You reckon?” he giggled.

Arkwright reached out for the boy, who shrieked with laughter and dodged the old man’s advances. It was a small room and there was nowhere to hide. Soon Arkwright had him by the arm. Still shrieking with laughter Max tried to break free, but within seconds his boss had him draped over his lap.

“No, no,” Max was still chuckling as his shorts and pants were tugged below his buttocks.

It was a game; they both knew that. Arkwright’s spanks were just love-taps. What a pity the buttocks were already so bruised; what a pleasure it would be to turn Max’s creamy-white cheeks to a dark shade of pink.

Max stopped struggling. It felt good to feel Arkwright’s hard hand fondle his pert cheeks. Max’s todger was waking up. And although his was hidden below two layers of cloth, so too was Arkwright’s.

Arkwright let the boy stand and hurriedly Max replaced his clothing. But, there was no hiding his erection.

Arkwright’s own member was also on the march.

“I have a taws in the drawer.”

Without waiting or a response Arkwright walked to the sideboard and removed a thick black leather strap.

Max was still chortling as Arkwright handed it to him. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. Max felt its weight. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick. The taws had seen some action. Arkwight used it regularly on a young farmhand who was always most obliging at fifteen shillings a time.

Arkwright had been a secret spanker for nearly twenty years; in that time he had learnt that so many young men craved to be spanked by their elders. He could smell the desire on them. And, this delightful summer’s evening, he smelt it on Max.

“Come on lad, bend over the armchair.” He pointed the leather towards a low-backed chair. He had surmised Max correctly. The boy’s cock swelled and the front of his snugly-fitting white cotton shorts could barely contain it.

“Quickly, don’t dawdle.”

Max beautiful hazel eyes glazed. His heartbeat raced and the room spun a little. But, after stumbling at first and then regaining his balance, he took a few pigeon steps towards the armchair and after adjusting the bulge in his shorts he fell across its back, so that his cock throbbed against the crown of the chair.

Arkwright whistled at the gorgeous sight. The muscles in Max’s legs and arse were tight. The red edgings of the boy’s snug shorts enclosed his buttocks and presented them to his punisher with perfection.

Arkwight’s own member was also on the march and although he could feel it tightening inside his loose-fitting underpants, he knew it would not be as long or as rigid as the cock struggling inside Max’s shorts. Oh, to be a nineteen-year-old again, he thought.

Arkwright caressed the leather taws in both hands, then gripping the handle in his right fist, he tapped the two tails into the palm of his left hand. It was a heavy beast and even a relatively light tap stung him. He would have loved to raise the taws to the ceiling and bring it crashing down with all his strength into the tight arse that was presented submissively before him. That’s what he would do with Freddy, the farmhand. But Freddy was an expert receiver of punishment.

If Arkwright lashed just one stroke at full force into Max’s waiting bum, the boy would jump a mile and run screaming from the house clutching his buttocks, never to return. No, Arkwright had learnt with Freddy that you had to groom a boy. Start softly; smack just hard enough to make him gasp. Leave the boy with a tingling bottom; nothing more. Then the next time increase the strength of the stroke a little. In time the boy would be able and willing to have his arse leathered off.

“Are you ready boy?” Arkwright swished the taws through the air and rested it on the very centre of Max’s quivering arse cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” it was no more than a whisper, but the old man sensed the teenager’s willingness. Yes, sir, he was really saying, I am ready. I really, really want you to do this.

He pulled back the taws and let it smack into Max’s cheeks. The boy wheezed, but showed no sign that he was in much pain. A further three swats bounced into Max’s arse. He felt those alright. His back arched and his legs marched up and down on the spot; just like a soldier on sentry duty.

Again, the leather rose and fell into the tight cotton shorts. Arkwright was enjoying himself, but he knew that he was only using about ten percent of the strength that he used on Freddy.

Twelve strokes and it was over. It was hardly “twelve-of-the-best,” but to Max it was the most severe spanking he had ever received; even worse than the copper’s hairbrush spanking. He remained face down; head pressing into the armchair seat cushion; unsure what was to happen next. He could feel his cock was close to exploding.

“You may get up, lad,” it was a gentle instruction. Arkwright was a little short of breath; but not because of the energy he used in the beating. He wanted Max. He wanted to take the boy up his gorgeous arse and fuck the teenager’s brains out.

Gingerly, Max rose from the chair. The room was spinning so he bent double, placing his hands on his knees until he recovered a little. The sight of that stunning backside pointing in his direction was too much. Arkwright grabbed the boy’s arm and in one continuous movement he guided him to the couch, pushed the lad down on his back, ripped down his shorts and underwear, took his throbbing member in his mouth and gorged himself.

Max was not quite a virgin, but he was as good as. He had no experience in controlling his cock to give himself maximum pleasure. Within seconds his member exploded in Arkwright’s mouth. Coughing and spluttering, the old man fell backwards as cum splashed on his face.

Later, thinking about it in bed at home; at first Max tried to blame it on the whisky. But he was an intelligent lad; he knew in his heart that wasn’t true. Max wanted to do it. He wanted all of it. Everything that happened that evening: he wanted it. And, given the chance he would do it all again.

Episode 3, Max and the headmaster is here.

Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

 The shoplifter

Bug on the wall

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman


Neighbours peered from behind lace curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the school cane in place on the frame. It was a hot afternoon during one of those glorious summers we used to have years ago.

Twenty miles away, the editor of a newspaper in the far north of England was in his office talking to his deputy and Max, a junior reporter.

“I heard there’s a policeman in Harkensbury who’s taking the law into his own hands.”

“You mean gun fights in the street, people hanging from trees?”

“Where’s Harkensbury …?”

“About twenty miles north of here, on the edge of the moors. A few villages. Farms. Moors.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some copper dispensing his own justice.”

“How do you mean?”

“He catches people but he doesn’t take them to court.”

“What’s he do?”



“Yeah, spanking.”

“You mean children.”

“No, adults too I think.”


“I don’t understand.”

“He spanks people if they break the law.”

“But surely not adults. You mean if you went up there and got drunk and later wee’d up the cemetery wall, he’d take you over his knee and smack your bottom?”

“No, not people my age, I suppose. Young adults I think. People like you Max. In the late teens. Twenties.”

“How likely is this?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But why would he do it?”

“Old fashioned justice. Didn’t coppers in the past used to give kids a clip round the ear? Take a belt to their arses?”

“Sounds a bit kinky to me.”

“Why would they let it happen?”


“The people. The villagers.”

“Maybe they think it works. Keeps crime down.”

“What crime? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it keeps the teenagers quiet. I don’t know.”

“But they wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Who? The kids?”

“The ‘young adults,’ the parents. The kids. None of them.”

“Not necessarily. What if they think it works. Or it’s better than going to court.”

“I heard a lot of it is motoring. The kids get stopped on their bikes. Speeding. Riding without insurance and the like. They don’t want to pay fines and have their licences endorsed. So, you know …”

“Some of it’s probably bravado.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like at school. You’re not one of the gang unless you’ve had a spanking off the policeman. They show off to their friends that they can take it.”

“No, I don’t believe it, it doesn’t ring true.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s say a load of yobs on their motorbikes are up at the moors and they stop at a café or a pub or something and they cause trouble. Then along comes Plod and he says, “You’re very naughty boys. Now, take down your trousers and bend over my knee.” Do you think they’re going to do it? Or course they’re not.”

“Maybe only locals.”


“Only locals. He only does it to locals. If there are outsiders they go to court in the usual way. I suppose he needs to make some arrests. For appearances sake. You know.”

“Well, let’s find out.”


“Max, I want you to find out.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the perfect person. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”


“Nineteen, see, you’d be perfect.”

“Perfect? Perfect for what?”

“To go to Harkensbury and find out what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just go in and say, ‘Excuse me officer, but I hear you illegally spank boys’ backsides. Boys’ bare backsides.’ Come on.”

“You could go and suss him out a bit. Go to the police station. Have a look; see if he’s got a cane hanging from the umbrella stand. You know one of those jobs with the curved handle.”


“Look, Max. You can go up there and have a look round. Use your charms. Talk to some locals. Chat up the girls.”

“Girls? Is he spanking the girls too?”

“I don’t know. Find out. He might be.”

“No, their parents wouldn’t let him do that surely.”

“I don’t know, but the girls will know what’s going on. Maybe their brothers have been done. Or their boyfriends.”

“Maybe he does them both together.”

“You what?”

“You know, spanks the boys and girls together. He finds them canoodling behind a hay stack and they both get it. Over the knee, knickers down …”

“You’ve been reading too many porno stories [Laughter].”

“Seriously Max. I want you to go and find out.”

“But… What can I do? What will I be able to find out?”

“Use your initiative lad. What do we know? We know he spanks teenagers like yourself if they commit a nuisance or a crime or what have you.”


“So, test it out. Like an old-time reporter.”


“Before your time, Max. You know Harry when the ‘News of the Screws’ turned over massage parlours that were really brothels. The reporter would have his massage and then when the girl offered him the extras, you know the sex, he made an excuse and left.”

“You’re mad.”

“So in time-honoured fashion you go up there and cause some bother. I know, you get yourself caught stealing something from the village store. Then the policeman is called and you go back to the station and you know.”

“So, when he’s unbuckled my belt and is pulling my jeans down, I make an excuse and leave! And I end up with a criminal record.”

“Mmmmm. Looks like you’ll have to take the spanking then.”

“Very funny. Anyway, I can’t. Harkensbury is twenty miles away. I don’t have transport.”

“You’ve got your bike.”

“I can’t cycle twenty miles there and twenty miles back.”

“What a fit lad like you. Look at you, you’re always cycling …. Running ….”

“There’s a train station at Falney.”


“Yes, it’s three miles from Harkensbury. On a local line. Get the train up there and cycle the rest.”

“You can cycle around the villages, find out what you can.”

“Get a ticket for speeding.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”

“If it’s true, it’s a cracking story.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Crime committed. No court hearing. He takes boys across his knee for bare bum spankings. He loves it. It’s called perverting the course of justice.”


The widow Graveney had been expecting PC Snodgrass and had the front door open to welcome him before he had liberated the cane from his bicycle.

Upstairs, her eighteen-year-old son Albert sneaked a peak from behind the bedroom curtain. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. He had spent the past half hour testing the thickness of each pair of trousers he possessed to decide which would offer the maximum protection during the ordeal he faced. He did not know his effort was wasted: PC Snodgrass had no intention of letting trousers get in the way of his duty. Nor, for that matter, underpants. The policeman had no wish to return to the house; he would make today’s thrashing so awesome, young Albert would never, ever, want to have to bare his backside for Snodgrass again.

Downstairs, PC Snodgrass and the Widow Graveney exchanged embarrassed pleasantries. Albert had not committed a crime, but he had started to get out of his mother’s control: he was surly, rude and constantly disobedient. He needed discipline and if his father had been alive he would have long ago tanned the youngster’s behind good and proper.

Snodgrass offered a private service to a number of women on his patch; there were many widows on account of the mining disaster and a number of young men who were going undisciplined. Mrs Graveney had received a recommendation from Mrs Wheeler; her Thomas had turned over a new leaf after the policeman caned his backside raw and, she was sure, Albert would benefit from the same treatment.

Snodgrass was the only policeman for miles around and on his patch he was the law. Nobody wanted to cross him; this was a law-abiding community of hard-working folk. They believed in right and wrong and if they did wrong, they expected to be punished. That extended to the young folk and the children as well; corporal punishment was as natural in their lives as the sun and the rain.

“Shall we get on with it, Mrs Graveney,” PC Snodgrass had another punishment visit to make later that morning and was keen to get things moving, “Why not call Albert down. Then I find the mothers usually prefer not to be present for the …” he hesitated, “well you know what.”

Snodgrass found that sometimes mothers lost their nerve at the crucial moment and didn’t want him to go through with it. No wonder their children were so ill behaved, if their mothers mollycoddled them like that.

Moments later Albert appeared in the front room. Snodgrass permitted himself a smile when he saw the teenager had dressed in trousers made from a heavy twill material.

Snodgrass had prepared a short sermon, nothing much, just a catalogue of Albert’s misdeeds followed by a homily on the blessedness of mothers and why they should be obeyed. Then he pronounced sentence.

Albert had listened, or at least pretended to listen, without expression to Snodgrass’s lecture. But then: “Twelve strokes, bare bottomed.” the boy’s deep suntan couldn’t disguise that his face had drained of natural colour.

Albert’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his throat. But, what could he say; there was no doubt, none at all, that he was guilty as charged. He had been horrible to his mother for a very long time; and now the time had come to pay for his bad behaviour.

But, twelve and on the bare. He had been caned at school (who hadn’t been?) but that was never more than six strokes, sometimes it was less, and always on the seat of his trousers. It hurt a boy like crazy when the Head of Year lashed his heavy cane across his bum and the last time he got it, a month or so ago, the marks stayed with him for a week. That was awful, but twelve strokes trousers and pants down would be beyond his endurance.

Snodgrass swished the cane menacingly through the air; his intention was to intimidate the boy in front of him and he succeeded magnificently. Already tears were forming behind Albert’s eyes and he wanted to beg the policeman not to thrash him.

The policeman had never in his life had a boy refuse to prostrate himself before him to receive a beating. Once or twice they hesitated before taking up the required position, but they always did as instructed eventually. He knew Albert would not want to humiliate himself by being too cowardly to submit for his punishment.

Albert was shaking like the proverbial leaf as he unfastened his heavy trousers and let them fall to his feet, followed by his Aertex underpants. Instinctively, he cupped his hands over his manhood and blushed deeply at the shame of being naked before Snodgrass.

“Don’t be foolish boy. You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Albert blushed all the deeper.

“Bend over the table,” Snodgrass swished the cane at the dining room table.

As if in a trance Albert shuffled the few feet to the table and then, not being quite sure what to do, he leant down on his elbows. The white linen tablecloth slipped under him and he slithered forward.

“Not like that boy,” Snodgrass sneered, “flat on your stomach.”

Albert regained control and lay belly down on the table. It was circular so there was no far edge for the teenager to grip. So, instinctively he folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them.

Snodgrass was faced with a pair of quivering buttocks. He lined the cane up across the fleshiest part of the cheeks, tapped once or twice to get his aim and then lashed into Albert. This was no love-tap, or token stroke, the policeman wanted the cane to enter the boy through his rear end with so much force that it could possibly exit through his front.

An ugly thick mark grew and redness deepened across the very centre of Albert’s bum. The first stroke seemed to take him by surprise, but the horror of the pain quickly kicked in. This was going to be no schoolboy caning.

Then an even harder stroke cut into the sit spot, making the boy wail. His bottom was now paying the consequences of his impertinence and rudeness to his mother.

Snodgrass was an expert. He calculated the strength of the next three blows to perfection and watched Albert’s squirming bottom for a few seconds before slashing home another three.

Albert was flogged until he sobbed and pleaded and finally fell silent – beaten and ashamed.

Then it was over. Like a zombie, the boy rose from the table and pulled up his pants and trousers. He could feel each and every stroke throbbing.

Snodgrass called up the stairs as he left the house, to let Mrs Graveney know his task was completed. As he retied the cane to the frame of his bicycle, the policemen was pleased to note that the neighbours were still at their windows.

Max is at home. It is night time and he is in his bedroom. His eighteen-year-old brother, naked except for his snugly-fitting bottle-green briefs, is across his knees. Max is pounding down slaps into his brother’s bottom: rapidly and very hard. Max thinks his brother has been taking things from his bedroom without permission: magazines, records and so on. He thinks he might even be stealing cash.

His brother knows he has been a naughty boy and deserves this spanking. He keeps his bottom raised high to give Max the maximum area to aim at. Max lays into him with enthusiasm, but his brother’s bottom is pert and seems to be made of steel. His own hand might be hurting much more than his brother’s buttocks.

Max has had variations of this dream over the past few days. Last night his brother was totally naked, his bottle green briefs at his ankles, but he still remained stoically across Max’s knees. Max caresses his brother’s buttocks, thighs, legs and back. His body is all over suntanned, except for the buttocks which are a creamy, hairless, white: they have been protected from the sun by the skimpiest of swimming trunks.

Again, his brother lies submissively across Max’s lap as he slaps the palm of his hand into his cheeks.

Max recalled his dreams as the train chugged its way to Falney. It was Saturday and he was off to Harkensbury in search of the spanking policeman.

Corporal punishment had been a topic much discussed in the office over the past week. There was an odd story in the journalists’ weekly trade newspaper. It seems an editor in Japan would spank his reporters with a wooden paddle when they made mistakes. This encouraged Arkwright, the aging bachelor chief sub-editor, to declare that he would bring a carpet slipper into the office to encourage the junior reporters (he meant Max, who was the only junior on the newspaper) to spell correctly. Everyone agreed what a good idea this was.

It was another glorious sunny day and Max decided to make the most of it. He would be cycling a lot so he chose to wear the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. They had a bib at the front that fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath . A loose fitting yellow t-shirt was the only other clothing he wore.

Max admired his reflection in the train’s window. He had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over; as with his brother his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. He knew the girls admired him when he walked around town, but he was too naïve to realise that so too did a few of the men.

Max’s editor was happy to encourage him in his choice of clothes for this trip, believing that the police constable’s spanking exploits were almost certainly a sexual fetish. When he took one look at Max, the tasty teenager in his skimpy shorts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

Harkensbury turned out to be a one-horse town; well one-shop anyway. The general stores was about one hundred yards from the police station, so Max thought if he did have to resort to shoplifting they wouldn’t have far to drag him for his spanking. There were one or two cottages dotted about and he could see a church down a lane, but there didn’t seem to be a pub.

Max dismounted his cycle near the police station. It was a basic brick building and even from a distance he could see it was one office with a house attached. This must be where the constable lived. There was no vehicle outside and everything looked locked up; he hoped he hadn’t wasted his journey.

The teenager picked up his canvas shoulder bag, the one he used for carrying the newspaper’s camera and other things like a bottle of water and sometimes a sandwich. The camera was compact, but good enough for his purposes. He took a couple of snaps of the outside of the building and then checking to make sure nobody was about he crossed the road to the police station and peered through the windows. Did his editor really expect there would be a school cane hanging from a hat stand?

Max put the camera to the window and took a picture, before quickly dashing from window to window, imagining he was a spy collecting information about a foreign enemy.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Max didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. He knew: the police constable must have just popped out to the store. He turned slowly to see a short squat man in a sweat-stained blue shirt, confirming his suspicions.

“Why are you taking photos through my window? Who the hell are you?”

Max remained silent. Should he lie, or should he tell the truth, “I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m here to expose you as a kinky spanker.”

Before Max could say anything Snodgrass grabbed the camera from his hands and opening the back pulled the roll of film from it – destroying all his pictures.

“Were you intending to rob the police station?”

Still Max stayed silent.

“Get in there you,” Snodgrass grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and propelled him inside the building. The room was hot and airless. The police constable was sweating profusely, but it wasn’t entirely due to the heat.

“Can I have my camera back please?” The policeman meekly handed it back to Max, who opened up his canvas shoulder bag and took his time returning the camera.

Snodgrass’s breathing was laboured. What a glorious sight. Those legs. Those crazy shorts.

“You know I can do you for attempted burglary don’t you?”

“Oh, Sir, please don’t do that.” It seemed to Max the appropriate thing to say.

“I’m going to have you put in the cells until Monday and then you can go before the magistrate,” Snodgrass couldn’t take his eyes off the boy: that flat stomach; those thighs.

Max remained silent. It was Snodgrass who must do the talking.

“Or, we can deal with it another way.”

“Another way Sir, what would that be,” Max spoke clearly now.

“I can spank your backside for you.”

“You want to give me a spanking, did you say?”

Snodgrass had been clear enough the first time, but he repeated himself nonetheless.

“Yes, I can spank you and the magistrate doesn’t have to be bothered.”

“Spank me, isn’t that against the law?”

“Around here,” Snodgrass sneered, “I am the law.”

The police constable took Max’s silence to mean he agreed to his suggestion so he pulled a straight backed chair to the centre of the room.

“What are you doing with that chair?” Max asked, as if he really didn’t know.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Snodgrass spluttered as he delved into a drawer to find a large oval wooden-backed hair brush.

“Are you going to spank me with that hairbrush?” Snodgrass had only just met this delicious boy, but already he had concluded he was a bit dim-witted.

“Yes, that’s the general idea. Now come over here.”

Max put down the shoulder bag on the floor close to Snodgrass’s chair.

“So if I let you spank me, you will drop all charges against me,” Max asked for confirmation.

“I’ve already said that. Now, how do you get out of those shorts?”

“What you want me to take off my shorts?”

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom. Now,” Snodgrass reached over to Max, “tell me how I take these shorts down.”

The shorts might have been the height of fashion, but they weren’t very practical if you wanted to evacuate them in a hurry. Eventually, Max had the bib undone and the shorts at his ankles.

Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.

“So you’re going to spank me on my bare bottom with that hairbrush,” Max asked, as if he needed confirmation.

“You bet, pal,” Snodgrass said and crashed the wood into Max’s rock hard left buttock.

Max didn’t know how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he reckoned the one he was getting now, was pretty painful. Actually, the nineteen-year-old would have been in more agony if his bottom contained more fat and less muscle.

Snodgrass loved every whack and spank of it. He raised the hairbrush high and brought it smacking down over and over and over again.

“Ouch, oooh, ouch, that hurts. Stop it please. I can’t take much more of this bare-bottomed spanking.”

Snodgrass had spanked countless boys, but he never encountered one who reacted quite like Max. Usually, they wriggled and squirmed and often they cried, but they never spoke like Max did.

The constable didn’t think much about it, he was enjoying himself too much. He spanked on for five minutes or more, completely toasting the small buttocks and Max’s thighs. The policeman’s breathing was uneven and the heat of the room and the excitement sent his blood pressure sky high. Max was in pain, but he was a very fit young man and he was taking the exertions in his very athletic stride.

Finally, Snodgrass had to admit it; if he carried on any longer he might have a heart attack or even die. It was time to stop.

Once released, Max jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of seeing him naked so hurriedly he pulled up his pants and climbed back into his shorts and bib.

Snodgrass was in a bad state, Max could see. Should he call an ambulance? He didn’t want the man to die on him.

“No, I’ll be alright”, Snodgrass wheezed, when Max asked.

“So, it’s over then. You have spanked me and I won’t have to go to the magistrates’ court?” Max asked.

“Yes, it’s over,” Snodgrass gasped.

“Thank you Sir, may I go now?”

“Yes, go.”

Carefully, Max picked up the shoulder bag that had lain on the floor during his spanking and left.

His buttocks were raw, but the pain was already turning into a warm glow. There would be bruises for few days, he supposed, but no lasting harm had been done.

He climbed onto his bicycle and rode away, but the hard seat against his buttocks reignited the pain of the bare-bottomed spanking. After a hundred yards, he pulled over to the side of the lane, as he had always intended doing. Dismounting the bike, he opened the shoulder bag and peered inside. The small tape recorder was still running. He stopped it, rewound a bit and then he pressed play. Bingo, loud and clear: his spanking.

He remounted the bike and despite the discomfort rode at full pelt to the train station with a huge grin on his face. What a scoop!

Episode 2, Max and the deputy editor is here.

Other judicial punishment stories you might like.

The sneak thief

Footballer’s judicial caning


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

St Francis Grammar School. Snowballs

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. For more click below

Dr Henderson-Smith the headmaster was at his most self-important. Five hundred schoolboys sat in rapt attention.

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, berated his boys. He was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. His white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

The headmaster had centre stage and the old ham actor was enjoying his moment. The topic of his sermon was snowballs; and the throwing thereof. The dangers of eyes poked out by shards of ice. Damp clothes and influenza.

He wrapped his academic gown around his body giving the appearance of a crow about to take flight. “I do not have to spell out the consequences to any boy found throwing snow.”

Undeniably he did not. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school. It had traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. An errant boy could expect a very sore backside indeed.

It was proving to be one of the worst winters on record. Brocklehurst had been carpeted with snow for most of December and January. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come.

That evening George Baker, sixth-form pupil and prefect at St Francis, stared from his bedroom window. The snow was falling once more. He tucked a hot water bottle beneath his sheets and dived under the blankets. Shivering in bed, he went through a plan in his head. He had been thinking about it for months. Maybe, he thought, one day, he would put the plan into operation.

The next day Dr Henderson-Smith sat in his study. The school day was completed. The open fire roared, but there was still a chill in the air. He busied himself preparing a composition to inflict on his Upper VI Latin class. His concentration was disturbed by a dull thudding noise. He paused from his labours, uncertain what it was that he had heard.

Then, there it was again. Thud. Something had connected with the outside of the study window.

“What the Dickens?” the headmaster said aloud, even though he was alone in the room. When a third thud followed, he was certain he had solved the mystery.

A handful of snow was slithering down the outside of the window.

He rushed over and peered through the now-misty glass.

“What the …?” This time he failed to complete the sentence. Below his study window, in his clear view was a boy throwing snow. Dr Henderson-Smith watched dumbfounded as the boy crouched down, scooped snow into his hand, fashioned it into a ball, and then threw it, seemingly at random at passing pupils.

The boy was clearing disobeying the headmaster’s instruction. No snowballs. Dr Henderson-Smith stared with radioactive eyes. Then he threw open the window and roared, “Baker, my study. This instance!”

The boy dropped the snow he was fashioning for another missile and turned to face the noise.

“Yes, Sir,” he said meekly and moved to enter the building.

The headmaster closed the window and sat at his desk, dumbfounded. He had caught George Baker throwing snowballs in clear violation of the headmaster’s expressed instructions.

George Baker? Sixth-former and prefect. The boy was in the headmaster’s Latin class. He was among the brightest boys in the school and was destined to go up to one of the country’s top universities.

There was a timid knock on the heavy oak door of the study. Baker had arrived.

“Enter!” Dr Henderson-Smith bellowed. Slowly, the door inched open and a head appeared. It was a small head topped with short curly black hair. The face was flushed; possibly caused by freezing cold air; or possibly because its owner, one George Baker, knew he was in serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed.

“Don’t dawdle boy!” Dr Henderson-Smith was incapable of speaking at a normal volume. “Close the door, you are letting the warmth escape.”

Baker edged his way into the room, closed the door behind him and halted, unsure what to do next.

He eyed the headmaster resplendent in his academic gown, seated behind a huge oak desk. The boy had never been in this room before. There had been no reason for him to visit. Particularly not for the purpose that had brought him today. Baker found the dense oak panelling intimidating. The room was gloomy even during bright sunny days, but now, in the bleak mid-winter, it felt like the inside of a cave.

“Stand there boy!” the headmaster pointed very deliberately to a point on a worn rug in front of his desk. Generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet on this spot. It was the first phase of a ritual played out over possibly hundreds of years at St Francis. This was where every sorrowful boy stopped and stood, head bowed, to await his fate.

The second phase was the “jawing.” The headmaster berated the woeful boy for his misbehaviours. Dr Henderson-Smith had perfected his own style: pomposity. He aimed his steely eyes at Baker like a weapon.

“Were you not in att-end-ance at morn-ing ass-emb-er-ley yes-ter-day morn-er-ing?” the headmaster strung out every syllable for dramatic effect. This way, he believed, he struck terror into his boys.

Baker listened confused. When Dr Henderson-Smith spoke this way it could be difficult to follow what he was saying.

“Well, Baker?”

The eighteen-year-old sixth-former took a stab at a reply.

“Yes, Sir.” It was not a detailed response, but the boy hoped it would do in the circumstances.

“Pah!” It was an explosion. Air rushed through the headmaster’s lips. His snowy white moustache bristled; his eyebrows knotted. The outrage he felt was intense.

“And, yet!” Dr Henderson-Smith was barely in control. “And yet, you saw fit to disobey my clear instructions on the throwing of snowballs!” The headmaster was speaking more clearly now, but Baker was unsure if this was a rhetorical question. Was he supposed to answer?

He chose silence. He stared down at his feet and let his headmaster continue his denunciation.

“Never in my whole life as a headmaster,” he lied, “have I ever come across such wilful disobedience as this Baker. Never.”

Dr Henderson-Smith slapped the palm of his right hand on the desktop, startling young Baker who was intently studying the pattern on the rug.

“What do you have to say for yourself boy?”

Baker’s heart pounded. What could he say? He wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

“Well!” the headmaster screeched. He genuinely could not understand what Baker had been thinking.

“Sorry, Sir.” It was all he could think to say. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

“Pah!” It was another explosion of indignation. Sorry, the headmaster thought to himself. You soon will be.

“You leave me no choice, Baker.”

The boy raised his head. His grey-blue eyes shone as he watched the headmaster heave himself from his chair and pace the study. His destination was a corner cupboard. It was unlocked and within seconds the headmaster was rummaging round inside. His body blocked the teenager’s view, but he could hear a distinct rattling within.

Seconds later, Dr Henderson-Smith withdrew a curve-handled cane. Baker had seen many of these in the past; St Francis was that kind of school. But he had never before been on the receiving end of one. The headmaster looked attentively at the cane in his hands; as if seeing it for the first time. He murmured to himself and thoughtfully he flexed it between both hands. It was a little over three feet long and no thicker than a pencil.

Baker gawked from a distance. As school canes went it did not look especially vicious, he thought. He had seen longer and thicker ones. But, what this caning novice did not know was that in expert hands even a short thin cane could be made to deliver an excruciating sting. Dr Henderson-Smith was such an expert.

The headmaster turned to face the boy. He swished the cane through the air. If the swoosh! that it made was intended to intimidate the sixth-former it worked. For the first time that afternoon Baker wondered if disobedience had been such a good idea.

“Take you blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.”

Baker wanted to comply with the order, but his fingers didn’t want to work. Was it the cold or his nerves, he wasn’t quite sure.

Eventually, the jacket was in place.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Stand in front of my desk.”

Baker had never been caned in his life, but he had heard enough tales from school friends to know that in a moment he would be bent across the desk, with his bum in the air to allow the headmaster to thwack six-of-the-best across the seat of his trousers. It would hurt like blazes. He expected that. That was after all the point of it all.

“Lower your trousers.”

Baker had not expected that and the pleading look in his eyes betrayed his feeling. He stood rooted.

“Lower your trousers boy!” the headmaster repeated, a little louder this time.

Still Baker could not move.

“If you do not submit yourself to corporal punishment, I shall contact your father and tell him you are suspended from school. Do you wish me to do that?” The headmaster spoke slowly and deliberately.

He hoped it would not come to that. What on Earth would Mr Baker make of the situation? His eighteen-year-old son in the headmaster’s study refusing to take a beating. His son who had never given a moment’s trouble before. He had never needed caning before; never been given detention; never been set lines. He had probably never been admonished for bad behaviour in his life.

“One last time Baker. Lower your trousers.”

Sweat from the boy’s palms transferred to the belt as with shaking hands he struggled to loosen it. He could feel blood racing through his body at great speed as he pulled the buttons of his trousers loose, exposing the white Y-front underpants beneath.

The mid-grey trousers slipped down to his knees. He waited for the next instruction. Dr Henderson-Smith had developed a cruel streak in his years as a headmaster. The youngster standing in front of him was terrified. Dear God, the boy would be thinking, please don’t make me take down my underpants. The headmaster waited a moment and then waited some more.

“Lift your pullover and shirt clear of your bottom and bend over the desk.” He tapped the cane gently across the hard oak desktop in case there was any doubt.

Even though blood coursed through his body, it drained from Baker’s face, making him look ghoulish.

The boy adjusted his clothing exposing a flat hairless stomach and stretched his arms out ahead of him, gripping the desk top with both hands and thrusting his bottom out.

“Not like that,” the headmaster was easily irritated when a boy did not present himself properly for a caning. “Right over. Flat on your stomach.”

Baker eased forward. It was a huge desk and it was a stretch for him to reach the far edge with his hands. Unsure what to do with his arms, he folded them and tried to bury his head.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there,” the headmaster barked. “Do not move them and at no point try to protect yourself with your hands.”

Baker did as instructed. Hands on head worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable stance to take. Comfortable for now, but what happened next would be far from that.

Thinking about it later, Baker tried to imagine the scene. He was stretched across a huge oak desk; his trousers now at his ankles, revealing long, slim, slightly hairy legs. His shirt and pullover was pushed up and his midriff was bare. It was a cold room but he could feel the heat from the roaring open fire against his naked flesh. His white cotton underpants fitted snugly once the headmaster had tugged them tight against his buttocks.

His face was pressed down into the old oak desk. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify; probably some kind of polish.

He waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr Henderson Smith a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baker imagined, the headmaster preparing himself, flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the headmaster laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

Baker’s mouth opened and closed. “Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being exhaled. The boy tightened his grip on his entwined fingers and pressed down on the top of his head.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. That got Baker yelping. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baker had expected. How could anyone take six strokes like this? Then, he panicked. Six? It was to be six wasn’t it? The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff. Would it be more? Please God, no.

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. Dr Henderson-Smith was giving it some beef. Each stroke had been an almighty swipe; he could have been beating a carpet. This one had the boy’s feet marching up and down on the spot. His bum felt swollen. He desperately wanted to jump up and rub away.

“Oh, no!” Baker thought it but did not say it aloud. Dr Henderson-Smith had taken hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. “Please, no, don’t pull them down.”

He bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to beg for mercy. But, he need not worry. The headmaster pulled the waistband of the Y-fronts away from the boy’s back to get a full view of his bare buttocks. He was inspecting the damage done so far.

What he saw were three deep red marks, across both cheeks, almost parallel to one another. A thick welt had formed where two of the strokes had landed nearly in the same place. If he struck that area again, it would surely bleed, he thought.

The headmaster was not a sadist. He believed in corporal punishment; not in torture. A caning should be well laid on, especially if the body on the receiving end was a senior boy, or a recidivist, a repeat offender. Intense pain should be inflicted and there should be marks that would stay for days, a reminder of the penalty for bad behaviour.

Dr Henderson-Smith did not wish to leave Baker’s buttocks bloodied, so for number four he took aim lower down, away from the danger area. It struck at the sensitive “sit spot,” where the cheeks met the thighs. That one had Baker hollering. Tears flowed. He head-butted the desk; he marched his feet up and down and twisted his hips and bottom; but none of it helped. The agony was intense and it was not going away any time soon.

Four strokes had been delivered in a carefully timed sequence. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse so the full force of a stroke could be felt before the next was sent crashing home. The final two were delivered in quick succession, and at intense speed. Whack-whack. The whippy rattan bounced off the tight cotton-covered buttocks. It sounded like two pistol shots echoing around the ancient study.

George Baker thought he might faint. His scorched bottom felt like the headmaster had forced him to sit in the open fire. When the headmaster delivered the final cut to the boy he rested the cane on the desktop and waited for the final throaty scream to recede. For what seemed an age neither the headmaster nor the thrashed boy spoke or moved.

The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of George Baker, still bent across the desk.

Dr Henderson-Smith brushed his hand across the boy’s shoulder. “You may get up now,” he said softly.

Unsteadily, Baker lifted himself off the desk. His backside felt twice its normal size. He rubbed gently and even through the cotton underpants he could feel at least two distinct deep weals. The surface of his bum felt hard, like leather.

Tears still trickled from his eyes, but he was in control of himself now. Gingerly, he pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He could not bear to look at the headmaster. He wanted to get out of the study without delay.

While Baker struggled into his blazer, Dr Henderson-Smith reached into the drawer of his desk, extracted the punishment book and entered the details.

“Sign,” he pushed the book and a ball-point pen across the desk. The headmaster wanted this to end swiftly too.

“You are dismissed.”

Dr Henderson-Smith stood at the study window perplexed and watched Baker walk through the quadrangle and out of the school gates.

Twenty minutes later at home in his cold bedroom George Baker inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his bottom was tender to touch. It might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on a hard dining room chair at tea time.

So, he thought, that’s what it felt like to get the cane. It would have been a pity to have gone through his whole school career at St FIGS without knowing. He picked up the Football Monthly, eased himself down on the bed and flicked through its pages.

Other St Francis Grammar School stories you might like

New boy at school

 Kevin revisits his old school


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


The apprentices

Anders Schmidt’s heart raced, he re-entered the figures on the spreadsheet, double clicked the mouse and waited for it to update.

Sweat was moistening his brow and it was not only because the air-conditioning in the room was not working.

In a second the computer screen flickered. Schmidt did not have to look; he already knew the answer. He had missed his target again – for the second month running. He was in big trouble. Very big trouble.

He had a couple of hours maximum before his boss checked the files and found out what Schmidt, the apprentice salesman, had done; or more accurately, what he had failed to do.

Schmidt had been with MegaCorp for five months. He was taken on after he left school, along with dozens of other teenagers, for a five-year apprenticeship. He had been overjoyed to land it: unemployment in the country was high, and in the stratosphere for young people. Welfare had been slashed and for Anders, no job would have meant destitution.

Merkel sipped on his too-hot coffee and waited patiently as the printer coughed out the sales figures. Business had been slow since Christmas and he did not expect this month to be much better. He put down his mug, picked up a highlighter pen, and shuffled through the printed sheets. He almost smiled: sales were higher than he expected. By the time he had finished only two of his salesmen’s names were marked. Schmidt and another apprentice Vidic had missed their targets; Schmidt by a little and Vidic by a mile.

Oh well, Merkel, thought, he could have a little sport now.

Anders stared impassively out of the window. The sun was blazing, it had not rained in months and the grass had turned brown and died. The shortage meant it was now illegal to water plants and gardens across the country had perished.

Anders had never been in this situation before, but he knew something unpleasant and painful was going to happen. Since the Unity Government came to power a lot had changed. Its first task to tackle mass unemployment had been to strip workers of all their rights and set up work schemes. The apprenticeships had been welcomed by youngsters and parents alike. Boys, girls were not included, were signed up for five years and given training and a wage. In return, the boys were compelled to stay with the company until the end of their contract. The company, however, if it saw fit, could terminate the apprentice at any time.

To lose an apprenticeship would be a disaster. No former apprentice could by law be re-hired at another business.

Anders would not lose his job; not this time, he knew that. But, he would have to undergo a humiliation the like of which he had never suffered before.

MegaCorp called it their “second-chance” policy. In fact, for some apprentices it was a third, or even a fourth-chance policy. Ander’s bosses were not cruel people, they understood how vital it was for a young man to have work; many of the apprentices in the company were the only earners in their family. Heck, MegaCorp knew it had a social responsibility.

Merkel looked at the clock: it was twenty after noon. He would take lunch soon and deal with the apprentices later in the afternoon. It would give him something to look forward to.

At three-thirty prompt, Anders stood in Helmut’s office. Helmut was Merkel’s personal assistant. They used to call his post a “secretary”, but they changed the title when they sacked all the women and gave their jobs to men. No self-respecting man would want to be called a secretary.

Helmut was in his twenties and like everyone else in the country, he feared for his job, so he kept his head down, his mouth buttoned and his thoughts to himself. He knew how Merkel treated the apprentices and, even with the pace of changes being made to the law, he was darned sure what he did was illegal. But, he said nothing: fearing for his job and also for the skin on his backside.

A screen on Helmut’s desk flickered. “You can go in now,” and despite his timidity, he added, “Good luck.”

Anders knocked on the door, waited for a response and then entered.

It was a large modern open-plan office. It was so big if you took the furniture out there would be enough space to play five-a-side football. One end of the office was dominated by a vast steel and glass desk and the other end had been decked out like a fashionable lounge room with comfortable chairs and a coffee table.

Anders took his place in front of the desk. He could not look Merkel in the eye and instead stared over his left shoulder at the framed portrait of the nation’s new leader. He was in a commanding pose. Anders and his friends had once thought the man absurd, he even looked a little like the clown Chico who had been famous in silent movies more than a century previously.

But, now Chico had been in power for more than five years with no sight of a general election to come, they knew he was no clown.

Merkel eyed Anders up and down. He saw a slight boy in a pin-striped suit that was just a little too big for him. All the apprentices wore blue pin-stripes; it was like an unofficial uniform. If Merkel had his way the young men would have a proper uniform: he imagined them in pale blue shirts and black shorts. They would be proper shorts too, the ones that showed the boys’ legs and were not much longer than their underwear.

Merkel had never met Anders before, but he recognised him from the office. He knew all his apprentices by sight and expected that with the second-chance rule he would get to know each one intimately eventually.

Anders listened impassively as his boss went through the apprentice’s sales figures. They were poor. They were worse than those of the other boys. Anders nodded agreement from time to time; what more could he do? Nothing he said could change the course of action.

Satisfied that his case had been made, Merkel put down the printed sheets.

“We have a policy at MegaCorp. It is called the ‘second-chance’ policy; do you know what that means?”

Anders, his mouth now as dry as the grass outside the building, nodded.

“Well?” Merkel raised his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Anders coughed and said no more.

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, I understand the policy.”

“Good. Then let us not waste any more of my time.” With that Merkel rose from his chair and walked the length of the office. Anders looked on mournfully. Any moment now, something would happen, but he was unsure what.

He had heard all kinds of stories. Tomas, a second-year apprentice had heard from a friend who heard from a friend that it was just like at the police station. What he meant was that teenagers and young men found hanging around the streets (even before curfew time) were routinely rounded up and taken to police stations. There was one such station less than a mile from Anders’ home.

At the station, one by one, each boy was led (or sometimes dragged) into a specially prepared room. It was bare except for a purpose-built frame. Some boys were brave and prepared themselves, but most were not and had their trousers and pants ripped down by one, or if the boy put up a titanic struggle, two officers. Then he was hauled across the frame and his wrists secured by straps.

The police had previously used a smaller room at the back of the building, away from the main street, but the ceiling was too low for an officer to properly raise and flog birch rods into a boy’s naked buttocks.

The replacement room was much better: there was ample space to swing a birch. The downside was that the pitiful screams of the whipped boy could be easily heard in the street. The punishments were so frequent and the wails so loud that people in offices nearby had asked that the police confine their activities until night time; the noise was disturbing their work.

“Pathetic liberals,” the police commander sneered when he received the complaint. Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be sound-proofed.

Merkel took up a straight-backed chair and put it down in the middle of the room. There would be no birching for Anders, he would get something much less severe; but much more pleasurable for the boss.

“Come here boy.” Anders had not moved from the desk.

Merkel sat down and moved his buttocks around and spread his legs a little until he was comfortable and ready to take the boy.

“Take off your jacket and put it on the chair there.”

Merkel enjoyed watching the boy unbutton the jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He was much more muscular than he had first realised. The too-large jacket did not flatter him.

“Stand in front of me here,” Merkel waved his hand unnecessarily, as Anders by now understood what was going to happen.

Anders stood a little under six-feet tall and was perfectly proportioned. His skin was clear and his fair-to-blond hair was cropped close. His sky blue eyes positively sparkled, even when he was in such a predicament as this.

He was so much better than Vidic, who had stood in the same spot thirty minutes previously. That boy was small, squat, with curly dark hair and eyes as brown as mud. And, Merkel still shuddered at the thought of it; his body was covered in rough black hair.

No matter, Merkel thought, Vidic and his kind would not be around for much longer. The Unity Government had plans for people like Vidic.

Anders was rooted to the spot, too humiliated to move, when his boss reached forward and began to unbuckle the teenager’s belt. He wanted to push him away and run from the room. In a fair world he would be able to punch the old man in the mouth before calling Security.

But this was not a fair world; Anders must let Merkel do as he wished.

The belt loosened, Merkel turned to the zipper. It took a second for it to fall and the trousers to open to reveal Anders was wearing bright blue briefs that were so tight Merkel could immediately see this was no boy standing before him.

Merkel pulled the pin-stripe trousers down Anders’ hips, over his buttocks and down to the teenager’s knees. He was ready now.

Anders could feel his face flush; it was as red now as his buttocks would surely be in only a few moments.

“Relax,” Merkel whispered as he took Anders left arm and gently guided him across his knees.

Anders was too tall to comfortably fit across anyone’s knees. Instinctively, he placed the palms of both hands squarely on the floor in front of him. Behind him his legs were so long, he had to curve them at the knees so his toes rested on the carpet.

“Spread your legs a little, it will be easier.” Merkel’s gave the instruction calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a boss to have his nineteen-year-old apprentice bent across his knee preparing to have his bottom smacked.

Anders did as instructed and was now comfortably over the man’s knee, hands pressed into the carpet at one end and toes resting comfortably on the ground at the other; his bottom perfectly resting on the old man’s right thigh.

This was a novel experience for Anders, but not for Merkel. Over the past few months he had developed a routine that he liked to follow. He loved to take his time, especially with boys as beautiful as Anders.

He took hold of the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and carefully pushed it up until an inch or two of bare flesh was exposed. Then, with his left hand he pulled at the elasticated waist of the briefs. They were tight already and it took no effort to smooth out creases so the cotton fitted smoothly like a second skin.

All the time, Anders lay submissively in position. He had never been spanked in his life and had no idea how much this was going to hurt. He wished Merkel would stop toying with him and get on with it.

But his boss was not ready yet. With his right hand he caressed the boy’s buttocks, feeling the firmness of the cheeks and the smoothness of the thighs. The beautiful blond boy seemed almost hairless; but Merkel palm was tickled as he ran it down the back of Anders’ legs. The hair was so blond it was almost invisible against his skin.

His breathing was becoming a little heavy and very soon he feared he might show just how attractive he felt the boy was. It was time to get on with it.

He raised his hand to about three inches from the boy’s left buttock and brought it down with a resounding smack! The flesh gave way and he felt his hand sink into the boy’s buttock. Perhaps, he was not as firm as he looked.

Merkel smacked away across both cheeks: high, low and then in the centre.

Anders lay impassively across the man’s lap. He felt the slaps hit into his proffered cheeks, but there was hardly any pain. There was a tingling sensation at first that after a dozen or so slaps became a warm glow. He was new to the experience of hand spanking and would not know that no matter how hard or how rapidly a man smacked the palm of his hand into the buttocks of a nineteen-year-old he would not make much of an impression. Indeed, there was a real possibility that after a short time the man’s hand would hurt a lot more than the teenager’s bottom.

Merkel knew what he was doing. After a few dozen slaps, he paused, and without saying a word, he tugged Ander’s underpants down.

He rubbed his hand over the now-naked cheeks. “What a lovely shade of pink,” he said and rubbed some more. “And, so very warm.”

Anders gasped and closed his eyes tight. “Please God, don’t let him put his fingers in my crack,” he prayed silently.

Merkel raised his hand and slapped it down into the buttocks: again and again and again.

It still did not hurt Anders much, but despite the novelty of the experience he reckoned it was supposed to cause him pain. Otherwise, he thought somewhat naively, what was the point of the spanking?

He let out an “Oww”, followed by an “Ahhh” and hoped he sounded convincing.

Merkel smiled. He was not fooled. He smacked on and on into the yielding naked flesh, landing a few blows on the sensitive sit-spot where the cheeks meet the thighs. A genuine gasp escaped Anders’ lips.

The boss was impressed by his own handiwork; literally, for his handprint was clearly visible at the top of each cheek.

He smacked the boy’s bare bottom for fully five minutes and would have carried on for at least another five, but he was interrupted by Helmut.

“Sorry, Sir. There’s an urgent phone call from head office in Dusseldorf. It’s important.”

“It had better be.”

He released his hold on Anders and the boy sprang to his feet and quickly whipped up his pants and trousers. His bottom was a little sore, but even in the few moments it took to get dressed the pain had turned to a warm glow. Within minutes it would be gone altogether.

“Take your jacket and go.” Merkel picked up the telephone and called out to Anders as he was disappearing through the door. “And I want to see better sales figures from you next month.”

But he did not mean it.


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Six of the best caning stories 5. The performance review

Only three thieving days to Christmas

 The expenses fiddle




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


COMING SOON: Max of The ‘Champion’

PC Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.


Meet Max, a nineteen-year-old junior reporter on The Champion newspaper. One day he sets out to expose a rural policeman who has been perverting the course of justice by spanking young men. How does he do it? He poses as a criminal and soon ends up over PC Snodgrass’s knee.

The adventure doesn’t end there. Young Max discovers he rather likes having his backside beaten.

Max of the Champion starts on Monday 28 March 2016 and continues on Wednesday 30 March and concludes on Friday 1 April.


The headmaster ran the cane several times over Max’s drum-tight buttocks; finding his aim. Max gasped and screwed his eyes tight. He shuddered when he felt for the first time in his life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of his underpants. Why couldn’t Draper just get on with it? He could feel his cock swelling. He wriggled his body a little to press his penis into the soft leather.

“Keep still boy. Head low. Legs straight.”

Max settled. Then, swoosh! the cane landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a terrific cut, slicing both cheeks equally. The boy gasped; all the wind seemed to be knocked out of him.


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Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety. It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.


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Lazy students home for the hols

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

An encounter

Thwack! The cane bit deep into Dunmore’s bared buttocks. Hisssss! That hurt. A lot. Swipe! A second cut fell. “Ouch!” Mr Pritchard might look like a wizened old man, but he could certainly pack a punch. Dunmore clenched his teeth, clutched the seat cushion of the sofa and braced himself for number three.


A brand new, previously unpublished story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Read it here.


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