Home for the half term

“Go to the dining room young man and wait for me there, maybe what you need is an old fashioned spanking worthy of a lad half your age.”

Feeling very ashamed Roland went downstairs, fully expecting that even at the age of eighteen he would be caned by his father.

Father had made his views entirely, unarguably clear. “You might be a prefect. That does not give you the right to behave with such arrogance towards your mother, never mind to me.”

His attitude during the half-term holiday had been totally unacceptable. He had finally gone too far.

And he knew it, too. That was what made it worse. And, his father only knew the half of it.

Roland waited in the dining room. It was a huge room that belied its name. Although the family did sometimes dine in the room, it was mainly used as a drawing room. Bookshelves covered three of the walls, and here were more books in this room than could be found in a public library in a small provincial town.

Roland stood in the middle of the room, he didn’t expect to have to wait too long before his father entered brandishing a cane. He looked over at a magnificent Chesterfield couch; if today went according to past form, he would soon be bent double across its back, presenting his backside to his father.

In his mind Roland reviewed the events of the past few days. His father had been right: the boy had behaved inexcusably. He had been rude to his mother and surly to his father. He resented the way they ordered him about from the moment he had arrived from Thistledown Academy, his expensive private boarding school, for the half term holiday.

At school he had recently been elevated to the position of prefect and this gave him enormous powers of authority over the younger boys at the school. He gave the orders and they obeyed: he hadn’t been quite ready to have the roles reversed on his return to Monerley Manor, his family home.

Only that morning he had taken out his resentment at his treatment by his mother and father on John, the family’s nineteen-year-old undergardener. Do this, do that, Roland had ordered the boy about unreasonably. It wasn’t Roland’s position to instruct any of the household servants and had his father discovered he was doing so he would have been very angry indeed. It was just as well, Roland knew, that father did not discover what happened next.

Having bullied John for more than an hour demanding the undergardener perform impossible tasks, Roland went through with the final part of his plan.

And that was how John found himself with his thick corduroy trousers at his ankles bent over, palms of his hands on his shins, while his young master lashed an ashplant he had cut earlier that day especially for the job into the seat of his grubby underpants.

John knew this was not right; he supposed that only Mr Downing, Roland’s father as head of the house, had the authority to beat him. Of course, he could not argue the point: to do so he feared would have led to his instant dismissal from employment, along with his father and mother, who both had positions on the household staff. To refuse Roland would have meant certain penury for his whole family.

As the eighteen-year-old waited in anticipation of his caning, Roland’s father was upstairs in the master bedroom, searching. At last he found what he was looking for: his wife’s large oval-shaped ebony hairbrush. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked what was to become the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction.

Roland was careful not to express his surprise when seconds later his father entered the room: he was not carrying one of his many canes. Roland’s eyes flicked from his father and quickly surveyed his surroundings; had he not noticed a cane already in the room, previously planted in anticipation of this thrashing?

No cane was on show, but Roland knew there were many cupboards and drawers where such an implement could be secreted. His father had quite a collection of canes: he believed in corporal punishment and was not afraid to lash any one of his sons when the occasion arose.

Roland and every one of his older brothers had felt the sting of father’s canes. No, “sting” wasn’t the correct word. Father was both an expert and enthusiastic wielder of the cane: he had many years’ experience dating back to his own schooldays when from a young age he had himself received many thrashings and later when as a senior boy he saw it as his duty to inflict beatings on fellow pupils.

It was true; Roland knew from past experience, a caning from father was an awesome experience.

“Stand up straight,” Mr Downing barked at his son. Roland had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his father.

Mr Downing studied his son carefully. He suddenly realised he rarely actually looked at the boy, not closely. Roland was growing quickly, he was probably an inch or so taller than his father, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet an adult; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact. That was why Mr Downing had devised his plan.

The boy needed to be punished and corporal punishment was the order of the day, Mr Downing had decided, his son needed to be brought down a peg or two. A caning would certainly do that: it would hurt the boy like hell. He could lay it on heavy and inflict marks that could last days, weeks even. But, no matter how much agony Roland suffered, Mr Downing knew, he could take it.

No, the boy needed a special punishment: one that would demonstrate without question that he was still a child and that Mr Downing was his father and he must never forget that fact.

Roland’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw his father rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the dining room table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully also on the table.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves, he had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Roland was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like his father was not going to cane him after all. He was to be spanked with the hairbrush. His father had never spanked him before: never. How undignified. Spankings were something ones mother administered.

Roland watched horrified as his father pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Roland stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. His father was equally uncertain. He knew if he had ordered his son to bend over the Chesterfield to have his backside thrashed with the cane he would have obeyed without question. He looked over at his tousle-haired son, dressed in summer clothes: lightweight shirt and cotton short trousers. In those days the fashion was for short trousers to be properly short and Roland’s were hardly longer than his underpants. His legs were bare and he wore no shoes.

To inflict the required humiliation, Mr Downing knew the spanking had to be on the bare bottom, but would the boy consent to taking down his own shorts and underpants before upon instruction draping himself across his father’s lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while father forcibly dragged down the boy’s clothes and hauled him across his lap? If that happened, who would be the more humiliated; the father or the son?

Similar thoughts raced through Roland’s head, but resisting was out of the question: he was an English schoolboy of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take the punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.

But, Roland knew, the punishment was not unjust. He deserved a beating and he was prepared to accept the consequences of his bad behaviour. But, the punishment should itself be honourable, and a hairbrush across the bottom was not: that was meant for little boys.

“I’ll take a beating with the cane father, if you would rather,” he spluttered.

He didn’t know why he had said something so absurd. Of course, if his father had wanted to give him six-of-the-best, or even twelve, he would already be face down over the Chesterfield.

This was confirmed immediately as without answering his father reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Mr Downing was a bit surprised about how much weight was suddenly pressing down on his legs but was relieved that Roland did not resist. Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Roland’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Downing was pleased his eighteen-year-old son had not resisted. But, Roland could afford to be impassive, with the cotton of his short trousers combined with the material of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as his father fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks. This wasn’t so bad at all and it was infinitely preferably to the whip of a rattan cane.

His father must have thought the same and Roland soon found his father’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his short trousers, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Roland thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his shorts, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

His father held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential. This was proving to be so much worse than a caning.

The boy’s body lay flopped across his father’s lap as he pounded away. If Roland had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. Later when recalling this spanking, Roland reckoned this was the most humiliating part. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his father’s knees, his shrieking squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

He would have been even more humiliated if he knew that his wails could be heard outside of the dining room and John, the nineteen-year-old undergardener, attracted by the commotion was now witnessing Roland’s hard hairbrush spanking through a large bay window, while himself secreted behind a hedge.

John arrived just in time to see the final shame. Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Downing grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Roland’s short trousers.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. His legs thrashed about so much he kicked his short trousers way across the dining room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his father had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs had flown the same way. Roland’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly, pulled up behind his back.

Roland wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his father’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Downing hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy teenaged son in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while he struggled and pleaded but his father continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. Mr Downing remained silent. There need be no brooding post-mortems. The deed was done and the price was paid. The problem no longer existed.

The defeated teenager was sobbing and heaving convulsively across his father’s knees as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. No past caning had ever left him in such agony: the surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly ever so slowly he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

Without seeking permission, he picked up his underpants and gingerly slipped into them. He gasped in fresh pain as the elastic in the waistband rubbed against his scorched cheeks. Then, he bent down once more to retrieve his short trousers. As he did so the cotton of his tight briefs kissed his pert mounds; the agony was nearly too much and for a second he thought about ripping down his pants to leave his bottom exposed.

But, the schoolboy honour code once more struck in: he knew it was not the “done” thing to let the schoolmaster (or your father in this case) know you had been hurt by your punishment. So, Roland gritted his teeth and stepped into his short trousers before pulling them up tight to his belly.

It was over. Roland Downing aged eighteen, thanked his father before leaving the dining room, closing the door quietly behind him. He had spent the last ten minutes or so draped across his father’s lap with his short trousers around his ankles and his underpants around his knees.

About an hour later Roland was still lying face-down on his bed, trying to come to terms with the bare-bottomed hairbrush spanking his father had given him. The livid marks on his bum were clearly going to bruise and last for some time.

As his bottom continued to throb, Roland’s brain was saying: never again will I disrespect mother and father.

 

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

University student late for class

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Winker Wilson’s visit

used cane (37)

Mr Walter “Winker” Wilson exited the London Underground station and blinked in the early evening sunlight.

It was September and the weather could not decide if it was yet autumn. A gusty breeze welcomed him as he joined the crowds on the High Street. It was not cold enough for an overcoat, but he had the buttons fastened on his suit jacket.

He had not been to this place before. He had been given directions, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could find the house. It didn’t matter yet, he was early. He had twenty minutes in which to complete what should be a ten minute walk.

Wilson wore a blue pin-striped suit and sported a bowler hat. He always carried a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. He would have gone unnoticed in the City of London where he had joined the Underground. But, here in the poorer eastern part of London he stuck out like a sore thumb.

But Wilson, the thirty-six-year-old stockbroker, realised none of this. He was apprehensive about the visit he was about to make. He was unsure why this was so. He, himself, had arranged the meeting. Nobody forced him to be here. He could’ve been on the commuter train to his home in Weybridge.

He partly remembered the way. It went something like this: leave the station and turn right. Cross the road at the lights and take the first turning on the left. After that the details were a bit hazy. Walk down the road for a spell, turn right and then left and the house was in that street. He couldn’t even remember the name of the street, so he couldn’t ask a passer-by for help.

He didn’t want to do that. If he asked the way, he was sure the stranger would read his mind. He would guess his ultimate destination. His secret would be out.

The lights were faulty and the rush-hour traffic was heavy. Wilson had to make an undignified dash between a Ford Anglia and a bus. Otherwise he might be left standing at the kerb all night long.

He tried to look nonchalant, but inside he was churning. He was convinced every face he passed was staring at him. Some were. They rarely saw a toff in a bowler hat in these parts.

He turned left as instructed. It was a long narrow residential road. Large houses, some damaged by wartime bombs, lined the street. Already some had been renovated; small flats and bed-sitting rooms, where large expensive houses had once stood.

The directions were excellent. He found the street without difficulty. He was nearly there. He paused and looked down the road. It was almost deserted. But not quite. Small children played hop-scotch in the road. Two women stood on a doorstep gossiping.

Wilson paused. Did he want to go through with this? Was it too late to change his mind?

He had confirmed by telephone that he was on his way. Mr Teddington was expecting him. He was preparing for his visit. Wilson couldn’t possibly back down now.

The two women roared with laughter when he passed them by. He had raised his hat and bid them “Good evening ladies.”

“Lor,” one crowed, “I’ve neffer seen nuffink loike it.”

Number 27 was his destination. He felt the stares of the women burn into his neck. Did they know where he was going? Had they watched similar gentlemen in the past make the same journey? Would they still be there on the doorstep gossiping when he departed?

The house was shabby. It shocked Wilson, but he wasn’t sure why. What had he expected in a district such as this? It was one of the poorest parts of London and heavily damaged by the Luftwaffe. He stood for a moment on the doorstep. The door was coloured green, but had peeled so badly that blue paint poked through in large patches.

Wilson lost his nerve. This was just like reporting to the headmaster’s study all those years ago at St Tom’s. No, he realised, it had been a mistake. He would go. Later he would telephone and apologise.

Suddenly, the door inched open. A small elderly man, easily in his sixties stood there. He smiled. A weak smile, most of the old man’s teeth were missing. Despite his shortness he stood erect. He had presence.

“Mr Tompkins?” he smiled again. The puzzled look on Wilson’s face did not deter him. Often his gentlemen did not give him their real name.

“Yes, indeed, yes,” Wilson blustered. He felt his face glow scarlet.

“Then please come in.”

It was a surprisingly spacious house and remarkably clean considering the shabbiness of the exterior.

“Put your hat and umbrella there,” Mr Teddington said, nodding towards a table in the hallway.

Wilson did as instructed.

“Now, stand and face the wall. Hands on head.” It was a curt command. Wilson knew that tone of voice. He had endured it many times from masters at school. It was the tone that said, “I am in charge and you will do as you are told. Or else.”

Wilson hesitated.

“You are in enough trouble as it is boy, do not make me lose my patience.”

It was astonishing. Mr Teddington could have been old Flynn, his form master at St Tom’s.

Obediently, he faced the wall and after unbuttoning his jacket so he was free to move his arms, he locked his fingers and placed them on his head. The Brylcreem in his hair felt sticky against his palms.

“You will wait there. In precisely two minutes you will knock on my study door.” He nodded to a dark brown door across the hall. “When I give instructions, you will enter.”

With that, Mr Teddington went into the study.

There was still time to escape. The front door was only yards away. He could be through it and on his way back to the Underground station before Mr Teddington knew he was gone.

He could do that. But he wouldn’t. He wanted this. No, he needed this. It had taken him years to pluck up the courage to make the appointment. He would hate himself forever if he did not go through with it.

He stared closely at the fading wallpaper. There was a faint smell of damp coming from somewhere close by. Even that reminded him of his old school.

With his hands firmly on his head Wilson was unable to access his pocket watch. He improvised. Slowly in his head he began to count. “One … two …”

This concentration helped to steady his rapid breathing but did nothing for his racing heart.

“.. one-hundred-and-nineteen … one-hundred-and-twenty.” He felt like a very small child starting a game of hide-and-seek. “Well, here I come”, he thought, “Ready or not.”

He crossed the hallway to the study. He hesitated. Suddenly and for the first time the absurdity of his situation struck him. It’s too late now he thought and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter!”

It was a clear command delivered in the pompous tone of voice so beloved of schoolmasters across the land. Wilson breathed deeply, turned the handle and opened the door.

Wilson was no fan of science fiction. Had he been, he might have ascribed the scene to time travel. The room was decked out as a schoolmaster’s study. It could have been 1938 again and he could have been back at St Tom’s.

Mr Teddington sat behind a large leather-topped desk. He was resplendent in an academic gown. Like so many worn by schoolmasters, it was old and a bit tatty. On his head sat rather unsteadily a mortar-board cap. The desk itself had two columns of drawers. It probably weighed a ton. A stuffed horsehair chair with low arms and a high back dominated the middle of the room. There were four straight-backed wooden chairs and a low table. Shelves ran alongside the whole of one wall, stacked high with what appeared to Wilson to be pre-War geography textbooks.

Behind the desk attached to the wall was a glass-fronted cabinet. Wilson had never seen anything like it before. Even at St Tom’s none of the masters had such a thing. It must have been specially made. It was a cabinet containing five curve-handled school canes. They were displayed as one might show a prized stuffed fish.

“Stand there boy,” Teddington growled. He pointed to a spot two feet in front of his monumental desk. Obediently, Wilson shuffled into place. He had assumed such a position many times at St Tom’s. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. It was a submissive posture, appropriate to his status. He was no longer a successful young stockbroker; he was a thoroughly naughty boy.

Teddington jawed him. The list of the boy’s misdeeds was long and varied. What had he to say for himself?

Not much. As all boys seem to do when confronted by such a question, Wilson mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Don’t know boy!” Teddington ejaculated. “Don’t know! Well you’ll know what-for soon enough.”

“Look at me boy.” The schoolmaster’s glare roasted Wilson.

Miserably, Wilson raised his head and gazed back at the man who was shortly to thrash his backside. Teddington was small in stature; he was easily two inches shorter than Wilson himself. But, when he was standing he stood erect, with shoulders back. He was a military man of some experience, Wilson supposed. His face was lined and dominated by a hook nose. Untidy side whiskers stretched from under his cap to close to his chin.

“I am going to beat you,” he barked. “I am going to beat you most severely.”

With that, he rose from the desk, turned on his heels and faced the glass cabinet. The five canes were of different lengths and thicknesses. Teddington had already made his choice. He would use his favourite. It was an ashplant of about three feet in length and a little warped from use. It was as thick as a pencil and frayed at the “business end,” a consequence of landing many times with some force across the seat of stretched trousers.

Wilson watched impassively. He had been eighteen years old – a senior man at school – when he had last been beaten. That was half of his lifetime ago. He had missed the sting of the cane. Hardly a week passed by without him reminiscing fondly about St Tom’s. The schoolmasters, prefects and the head beak himself strode around the buildings and grounds, a cane constantly under their arms (or so it seemed to the boys) waiting for the slightest excuse to slip it into their hand and apply it across the seat of an errant schoolboy.

Teddington was ready.

“Please remove your jacket and place it on my desk.”

Wilson’s heart raced and hurriedly he complied with the instruction.

“Stand by the chair,” Teddington preferred not to engage in histrionics ahead of a beating, nonetheless he swished the cane at the dusty armchair to emphasise his point.

Wilson took up position.

“Lower your bags and bend over the chair.”

Wilson suppressed a smile. This was the moment he had been dreaming of for these many years. Eagerly, he unhitched his belt, unbuttoned the fly and let his heavy pin-striped trousers fall to his feet.

The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest, man-boy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Wilson knew the routine in such cases was for a boy to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his behind high to meet the thwack of the ashplant.

He was over the chair in a jiffy. His head was down low in the dusty seat cushion and his bottom held high and at an angle; all the better to receive the stinging cuts from the schoolmaster’s whippy cane.

It was an authentic schoolboy beating. Six hard swipes delivered with vim. Each landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a “six” laid on with an energy and enthusiasm.

In his imagination, Walter Wilson was once more “Winker,” the incorrigible schoolboy of his youth. He was no longer in a strange house in bomb-damaged London. He was at the elegant St Tom’s school, the educational establishment for the sons of the gentry and the rising middle-classes.

He was showing his arse, but not to a paid professional “master.” In his imaginings it was Mr Flynn, his form master who was about to whip his bottom to shreds.

He shut his teeth and closed his eyes tightly and waited for the first shockwave.

It was not long in coming.

It was as if Teddington were beating a carpet. The cane rose and fell in a succession of swipes that sounded like pistol-shots.  As the pain seared from his buttocks and engulfed his entire body, Wilson struggled to stay calm. A chap was allowed to holler when the cane was slashed into his flesh with vigour; it was a natural thing to do; but a chap must not blub. Blubbing was completely forbidden. No matter how severe the whopping, a boy must not weep tears. He would never hear the end of it from his fellows.

It was not merely “six.”  It was as thorough a licking as Mr Teddington had ever administered; such a licking as Wilson had seldom or never experienced before. He yelped and he howled and he squirmed and he roared, and still the cane swiped and swiped.

Then, it was over.

“Stand up boy.” It was a fierce command.

Wilson eased himself to his feet. It had been a long time since he had endured so much pain. Instinctively his palms shot to cover his buttocks.

“Stop that! How dare you!” Mr Teddington thundered. Wilson bunched his hands into fists and placed them at his sides.

“Get dressed. Hurry up boy.”

The pain was excruciating. Had “six-of-the-best” felt so awful when he was at St Tom’s? Memory plays tricks on people; he couldn’t be certain.

The agony was subsiding by the time Wilson was once again fully dressed. He stood motionless as the schoolmaster replaced the cane carefully in his magnificent cabinet.

Teddington turned to face Wilson once more.

“I want you to go into the hallway and face the wall. Place your hands on your head once more,” he barked.

Then he added, “I don’t want to see you rubbing your bottom.”

With his buttocks still throbbing, Wilson exited the study.

He stood as instructed, reliving the events of the past few minutes in his head. It had been an eighteen year wait, but it had been worth it.

Suddenly, the study door opened and Teddington emerged, dressed once again in his “civilian” clothes.

“Come,” his broad smile cracked his rather ugly face, “Let’s have tea. The kettle should have boiled by now.”

 

Other stories you might like.

A maintenance spanking

The old boys

The Private Tutor

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar 7. One off the wrist

Rev Crick has three young university students staying with him as paying guests. In part one his latest lodger nineteen-year-old Craig was caned for his idleness during the past year. In part two, he learnt that the vicar does more on a Sunday than preach sermons.

Now, Tommy, another lodger, discovers Rev Crick keeps a firm hold on his tenants’ moral behaviour …

Tommy was late for breakfast and he knew that very soon if he wasn’t careful he was going to be in a heck of a lot of trouble.

But, he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault. It was the girl in the sweetshop: he couldn’t get her out of his mind: that hair flowing over her shoulders; the smile; the neck.  Those breasts!

The twenty-year-old hawked a gob of saliva onto his palm and pushed his arm under the bedclothes.

Downstairs in the kitchen Reverend Crick was losing his patience. He had called Tommy five minutes ago and he still wasn’t at the breakfast table.

Tommy’s breathing was heavy, har, har, har as he worked away. Quickly, finish off before the reverend comes in. No, not quickly: slowly.

Ah, ah, ah. Tommy’s legs straightened as sensation pulsated through his body. Those breasts!

Rev Crick was angry now. He knew what that dirty little boy was up to.

Tommy was holding on, trying to make it last.

Crick turned the gas down low under the saucepan and left the kitchen.

Ah, ah, ah, the breathing quickened, any moment now.

Crick strode to the stairs and started to ascend.

Yes, yes, yes!! Tommy shot a load onto a strategically placed wad of toilet paper.

The bedroom door burst open to reveal Rev Crick’s face of thunder.

“What have you been doing?” It was an accusation, not a question.

Tommy peered from under the bedclothes, feigning sleep.

“Eh, what time is it?”

“Don’t give me that.  You were not asleep.”

Tommy made exaggerated yawning noises, sat up in bed and stretched.

“What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” it was an unconvincing lie from Tommy who had guilt written all over his face.

Rev Crick sniffed a faintly sweet aroma in the air. His eyes searched the room. Then he saw it: a fistful of soiled toilet paper.

“You filthy, disgusting, dirty little boy, what are you?”

Tommy blushed scarlet, but remained silent. There wasn’t much he could say.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?”

“Mmmm”

“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

The reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the reverend desired.

“Talk to me boy! What did I say?”

Tommy mumbled an inaudible answer.

“Speak up,” the reverend’s anger was boiling over.

“The cane.”

“What about the cane?”

“You said I’d get the cane.”

“I said I’d cane your hands so hard you wouldn’t be able to touch anything for a week, let alone your pee-pee, you disgusting, dirty, boy.”

Crick’s anger was genuine. He was of the old church that had distinctly strong views about the body. He believed that masturbation was one of the worst sins a person could commit.

He leaned towards Tommy and ripped the clothes from the bed, throwing them on the floor.

Tommy, naked except for a pair of green briefs, cowered away in fear. He had seen Rev Crick in foul moods before, but he had never witnessed anything like this. His fear turned to terror when Crick grabbed him by the hair and hauled him out of bed.

Within seconds they were out the door and Crick was dragging Tommy to the stairs. They both almost tumbled down them as Crick in his rage pulled the boy by the hair along behind him. Alerted by the commotion, the other lads rushed from the dining room in time to see Rev Crick open his study door and push Tommy through.

Tommy stood shivering in his underpants: shaking mostly from terror, rather than the cold. He watched in dread as Crick fetched a thin whippy cane from his special cupboard.

“You disgusting, dirty little boy.” Crick could not stop himself calling Tommy all the filthy names under the sun.

He swished the cane through the air. “I am going to make sure you never touch yourself again.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Terrified, Tommy stood rooted to the spot.

“Hold out your hand!”

Still Tommy did not move.

“I will not tell you again. Hold out your hand or I’ll flog you to an inch of your life, dirty, disgusting boy.”

In sheer terror, Tommy lifted his left arm slightly.

“Up, more! Higher.”

Tommy was shaking so much with fear that he couldn’t make his arm move any further. The reverend grabbed his elbow and raised the hand himself. Then after taking a step back he brought the cane down with a vicious swipe.

Tommy moved his hand just in time and the cane whistled past and very nearly struck Crick a very painful blow, near his own private parts.

Crick was puce. As if possessed, he grabbed Tommy’s arm in a tight lock with his own left arm and held the boy’s hand out as straight as he could and then he swiped down six ferocious cuts into the boy’s right palm.

The howls of pain rang around the whole vicarage and could be heard as far away as the church itself.

Outside the study, Tommy and Craig wondered whether they should barge in and rescue Tommy. But, they were too late. Rev Crick released Tommy’s arm and grabbing the other, repeated the punishment on the boy’s left palm. Six stinging swipes!

Tommy sank to his knees, screaming with the pain, hugging himself with both hands under his armpits, tears pouring from his eyes.

The reverend stood over the boy menacingly brandishing the cane, ready to deliver more.

“Please God! No more, please God!” Tommy choked on his words. His throbbing hands had swollen to twice or three times their natural size. “No more, please!”

Suddenly, Rev Crick regained his composure. He looked at the boy on his knees before him and he observed that he was himself still holding the cane. For a few seconds he was unsure where he was. What had just happened? He couldn’t quite remember what he had done; it was as if he had been in a trance.

Tommy was still on his knees, hands under armpits, bent double, sobbing into the carpet.

Sheepishly, Crick replaced the cane in the cupboard and without a further word to Tommy, left the room, fumbling for his cigarette packet and brushing past an astonished Bob and Craig in the passageway on his way out.

From that day forward a dark mist engulfed the vicarage.

 

 

The next episode of The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh is here

 

Some other stories from The Spanking Vicar

 

House call

Missed curfew

Reefer madness

Village fete

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Brad, the spanking-movie star

Brad Maguire was to become the star of spanking movies; but first he had to go over his boss’s knee.

It started the day I first met Billy at the burger bar. I had a part time job there: mostly I worked Saturdays because I was still in my final year at school.

Billy was the new duty manager. He was much older than the rest of us. We were mostly kids still at school or at college, earning spare cash.

The burger bar was always busy on Saturdays, packed with shoppers and families having ‘special time’ together. That suited me, because otherwise the job could be really boring.

I was working in the kitchen preparing the burgers and it was bedlam. Everyone was rushing around trying to serve the crowd of customers. I bent down to get a pan from the bottom shelf and as I was bending over I felt a dull thud on the seat of my trousers. Startled, I stood and turned round to see Billy standing behind me with a rolled up newspaper in his hand. He was grinning from ear to ear.

His bright blue eyes sparkled and he gave me ever such a slight wink. I smiled shyly back. But, the kitchen was busy, people were all around. We said nothing. We had our work to do.

And that was that. Nothing more happened.

Until the following Saturday when everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I stayed in bed too long (jerking-off again) so got to work twenty minutes late. That earned me a telling off from Billy. Then I couldn’t get the burger grill to work properly and that upset the customers and earned me another earful from the boss. The final straw came mid-afternoon when I sent a full tray of burger buns clattering to the floor. It wouldn’t have been such a problem, except this was in full view of the customers so we couldn’t just pick them up and use them anyway.

Billy was standing behind me as I stooped down to retrieve the buns.

“That’s it”, he said, “I’ll see you in my office at the end of the shift.” I rose and as I did so our eyes met. I knew what he meant and he knew that I knew. My heart beat faster and my face was bright red.

“Later,” he said.

At the end of the shift Billy called me into the office. It wasn’t very big, just enough space for a couple of filing cabinets, a desk and a couple of chairs.

“Stand there.” It was a command. He pointed to a spot in front of the desk and I obediently took up position.  Submissively, I bowed my head and stared at the threadbare carpet, my hands clasped tightly behind my back.

I don’t remember much of what he said. He listed of all my faults as if I had been a very naughty boy. Was today going to be my lucky day?

I had fantasied about getting spanked for just about the whole of my life. As a young boy when everyone was out of the house I would pile some cushions onto the seat of a dining room chair and bend over them like a naughty boy about to get his bottom smacked. I soon learned how to position mirrors in the right place to admire how I looked, my bottom high as if over dad’s knee.

Sometimes I would have my trousers around my knees and occasionally I’d be bare. My favourite position was stripped down to my tight white pants.

Often at night in bed I would make myself dream about school. Me or one of my classmates, one of the boys with pert bums, would be bent over a desk getting a dose of the slipper from a teacher. But now, aged eighteen, I had never been spanked in my life, but the fantasies were as real as ever, perhaps even more intense.

Sadly, I had no way of knowing how to turn these desires into reality. I was too naïve to realise that many people out there shared my interests and given the opportunity would gladly put me across their knee.

I had once dared to go to a dirty book store in London and bought some magazines with pictures of women spanking men. They weren’t quite my thing but there was one image in particular that did push my buttons. It was a stern looking boss type who had a young office boy across her knees. He was dressed in a white shirt and business trousers. She was raising a thick wooden paddle to crash it into his bum. He held his head low and his buttocks high ready for his punishment.

Many nights I soiled the sheets recalling the scene, but in my dreams the woman had transformed into a middle-aged man.

I loved that picture and dreamt of being that office boy. Where could I find a job like that?

Who would have thought it would be at a burger bar?

Finished with his lecture, Billy rose from his seat and made his way to the front of the desk. He picked up one of the chairs and placed it in the middle of the carpet and sat down. I knew what was going to happen next: I had visualised it often enough.

There was no more talk. Instead, Billy grabbed my arm and pulled me across his lap. Of course, I gave no resistance. I held my head low and my bum high for my spanking.

It was that simple. He raised his hand high and brought it hard down on the seat of my trousers. Again and again and again. With my trousers and pants on I hardly felt a thing. Probably, his hand was stinging much more than my bottom.

“Oh, this is no good. Stand up.” He helped me off his lap and unsteadily at first I stood up.

“Take down those trousers.” I wanted to comply with his command. I wanted to so much, but I hesitated. I could feel a bulge growing in the front of my pants and was too embarrassed to let Billy see.

“Doh!” Billy exhaled air and reached out for my trousers. I wasn’t wearing a belt and it took barely five seconds before he had them at my ankles. He must have seen my soldier standing erect but pretended not to.

In one swift movement I was back across his knees: bum high and head so low I was almost kissing the carpet. I had assumed a satisfactory position for my bottom to be spanked.

Billy moved the tail of my shirt clear of the target area and reached around me with his left arm and held me firmly around the waist.

This time, through my thin tight cotton underpants, I felt each and every slap as they heated up my bum. I was sweating profusely, and my breathing was heavy, fast, gasping. My face and neck were red and strained, as my first-ever spanking continued.

Billy of course was an expert spanker. His hand danced and popped, bounced and bit, stinging all over my buttocks, upper thighs, and sensitive sit spots.

Spank! Spank! Spank! On and on it went. The slaps were hard, steady, and fast paced. I lay there submissively. The pain wasn’t bad. It was simply warm and vigorous as my buttocks raised and quivered under the rain of blows.

As the spanking continued, I realized with shock that I was fully erect.

I didn’t know it but Billy was as red faced and sweaty as me. He must have felt my boner digging into his legs, and maybe that’s why suddenly he stopped spanking.

I lay across his lap gasping, my bottom glowing pleasantly. Yes, it was sore, but it was good sore, if you know what I mean.

Billy released his grip from my waist and ordered me to rise. Once on my feet I turned my back on my punisher and quickly pulled up my trousers hoping he wouldn’t see the tent in my pants.

“That’s it,” Billy said.

That’s it, I thought. No, it couldn’t be “it.” I wanted more: harder; on the bare; with a belt; a hairbrush; a cane.

My look must have betrayed my thoughts.

“Until the next time. . .”

But, there was no “next time.” Not at the burger bar anyway.

Billy and I became friends. He lived in what the local council called a “hard-to-let” property. That meant no one in their right mind wanted to live there. But, it suited Billy. It was on the top floor of a thirty-storey tower block. He had hardly any neighbours and those he had were not the kind of people who would be interested in what he got up to. And, as I say, that suited Billy just fine.

I left school that June and passed my A-levels and had a place at university lined up for the autumn. Billy said I could work full-time at the burger bar if I wanted to so I could make some cash for my time at university.

I knew money would be tight. I had a government grant, but my parents were expected to make a financial contribution to my upkeep, but I knew in reality they wouldn’t be able to afford it, so I would be on my own.

That summer I discovered there were other ways to make good money than working at the burger bar.

Billy introduced me to a whole new world I never knew existed. I don’t think we called it a “scene” in those days, but I did join a group of like-minded individuals who were engaged in CP and were only too happy to introduce me to their lifestyle.

One night he invited me to his home. Because I knew he lived in a very rough part of town I wasn’t too keen at first, and very nearly turned him down. I am so glad I didn’t.

He showed me a video film and it changed my life. Literally.

The film was a revelation: I’d never known such things existed. There was this ‘schoolboy’ called Richard (or was it Richards? I’m not sure), dressed in grey short trousers and a grey jumper. He was in his headmaster’s study; caught smoking (again). The two actors were marvellous, they really looked their parts. The young man playing the boy must have been shorter than average, or the headmaster taller than most (or maybe both of these things together) because Richard really looked pint-sized against the headmaster.

It seemed entirely realistic to me: in my town there was a really pretentious grammar school called St Francis where they forced the boys to wear grey flannel short trousers until they were about fifteen. Many of the grammar school kids you saw on the streets around town in their short trousers and fancy blazers were bigger than the lad in the film. I could easily imagine that I was watching one of the fourth-form boys at St Francis on the screen.

There wasn’t much of a plot in the film, there didn’t need to be, this was a real action CP flick.

The camerawork and editing were very professional. First we had a close-up of Richard, anxious about what was going to happen, then the headmaster looking stern. Close-up of a rack of curved handled canes. The headmaster selects one, then the anxious schoolboy again close-up. And so on. We saw what happened next from any number of angles: long shot, medium shot, close-up.

Richard is ordered to approach the back of the armchair. He takes down his short trousers, letting them rest at his shoes. Then he takes down his white Y-front pants to his thighs and on the instruction “Bend over that chair” he stretches over and reaches for the far side of the seat cushion. The headmaster pushes his jumper further up his back.

We get all sorts of close-ups of face, cane, bare bum, cane, headmaster. The “money shot” as they call it is when we get the close-up of the cane swishing into and biting Richard’s bare bum. He grimaces, shudders a little, and we see a red mark slowly appear across the centre of his buttocks. This is for real.

Richard gets twelve of the best and by the end his bum is criss-crossed with red stripes and (in close-up again) we see tears streaming down his face. The film is a masterpiece.

I was amazed and tremendously excited. I wanted to know everything about it. I asked Billy if what I had seen was as real as it seemed. He flashed a smile. Yes and no, he said. What he meant was that the cane marks were real enough, but the director of the movie had some ‘tricks’ using camera angles, so not all the cuts were as severe as the ones we saw in close-up.  But, no makeup was used, so what you saw really happened.

Did it hurt? Of course, but just like in reality, a boy could get used to the sting of the cane, however hard it was laid on. He told me of some of the boys who when they first started with the studio couldn’t even take two strokes of the cane. Now, they were veterans, and could take dozens of whacks at a session.

He showed another two films and both were just as great as the first. One involved a ‘naughty nephew’ who had his pyjama trousers forcibly taken down by ‘uncle’ before going over the knee for a severe bare-bottomed hand spanking. The other took place at an office where the junior sales team had failed to reach their monthly target again and were given the choice between dismissal and a thorough caning. You know which they chose.

I was a horny eighteen-year-old boy with a wicked fetish for spanking. I thought about it every moment of my day, awake or asleep. Whenever I walked down the street I’d ogle the bottoms of the boys and fantasise about how they would look across my knee or over the back of a chair. It wouldn’t matter if they were wearing long trousers, shorts, jeans, Bermuda’s, swimming trunks: you name it I jerked off about it every time I could, day or night.

That’s when I wasn’t masturbating while dreaming about being taken across a man’s knee for a spanking or ordered over the headmaster’s desk for six-of-the-best.

This was frustrating. I couldn’t go on like this. I knew Billy was a spanker and I thought that if I told him of my fantasies, he might give me another good seeing to. It wasn’t too difficult to confide in him, but his solution to my situation astounded me.

“Go to see the people at Swish! and be paid for getting your arse spanked.” Swish! Productions was the name of the company that made the videos I had seen at Billy’s home. And, would you believe it, Billy knew the producer.

Although I desperately wanted to meet other people who were into spanking, I was dubious about Billy’s suggestion. Although I loved the videos Billy had shown me and had wanked off by replaying them in my head many times since, I thought the people who made them were probably a bit sleazy. The boys who offered up their bare arses for the camera were probably on drugs or something. I couldn’t conceive that they could be normal (well, relatively normal) like me.

“Come on,” Billy said, when I told him of my concerns, “I’ll take you down there and you can meet them.”

So, with a little apprehension, I visited Swish! Productions. The first revelation was that they were a proper studio, with cameras, sound equipment, editing desks and so on. I didn’t know much about film making, but even I could see this was a professional outfit.

I met Alan, who with his partner Bob, owned the company. I recognised both of them immediately because they had starred in the video I had seen. Alan played the headmaster and the company boss and Bob had been the uncle who spanked the boy in the pyjamas.

They were also the technical wizards who directed and edited the films.

They were making videos that day so there were a few of the boys around. They seemed ordinary enough to me when Alan and Bob let me meet them. I didn’t realise it at the time but the two men had taken a shine to me and had recognised me as a potential actor in their movies.

I met four of the boys, who were aged from eighteen to twenty-one, I recognised two of them because they had played the office juniors in the movie and one, Trevor, had also been the boy caned on his bare bum by the headmaster.

It turned out that three of them knew each other from school. Ricky had been the first to discover Swish! and had done a couple of films. He wasn’t into spanking as a fetish, but the money was great, and he was more than prepared to do some more. So when Bob asked if he knew anyone who might also be interested in joining the band, he had no hesitation in roping in Trevor and Simon.

I immediately liked all four of the boys and I was impressed that they showed no shame about appearing in spanking vids. It was all in a day’s work for them.

Later, when Alan asked if I wanted to make some movies with Swish! I nearly bit his hand off in my eagerness to say Yes!

That’s how “Brad Maguire” was born. If you’ve seen any spanking movies from that time, you’ll know me. I’m the one in the scarlet blazer. That school blazer became my trade mark in the movies I did for Swish! It was just an accident really, but it caught on with the fans.

I had only recently left school myself when I did my first vids for Swish! They did a lot of school stories and had a huge wardrobe of black blazers, short and long trousers, shirts, socks and so on. But for some reason, they also had this one scarlet blazer. No one quite remembered where it came from, but the gossip was that it used to belong to a boyfriend of one of the film crew and it got left behind after a break-up.

I don’t know and I’m really not bothered (and I don’t suppose you are either). But it turned out that it fitted me rather we’ll. Actually, it was a little on the large side, but as every mum tells their disbelieving children, school blazers are meant to be like that so you can grow into them.

Someone at the studio thought it might make a change to have one of their boys turn out in something other than black and since no other ‘schoolboys’ were going to be in the picture with me, it seemed a perfect time to get the scarlet blazer out of mothballs, so to speak.

The first scene only lasted a couple of minutes. It was me and the schoolmaster. I’m in the scarlet blazer, short trousers, long socks, white shirt and school cap.

The schoolmaster is in traditional academic gown and a mortar board cap. We are in what appears to be a classroom. The director has us on a tight shot, so the viewer can’t see there is only one school desk in the corner of a large, mostly empty space. Empty that is, except for two cameras, a sound boom, a lot of wires and stuff and two other people.

I have not done my homework, again.

“Bend over that desk Maguire,” the schoolmaster points with his cane.

“I’m sorry sir; I’ll bring it tomorrow, sir.”

“Bend over that desk.”

“It’s not my fault sir.”

It goes on like that for a while with me trying to argue my way out of the caning. Looking back, this back-chat may have been part of the attraction and why viewers warmed to me. In other vids there’s not much dialogue and where there is, it is very stilted or forced.

Part of the reason for this is the lads who play the scenes aren’t very good performers. In films like this we get called ‘models’ rather than ‘actors’ and that’s fair enough. We don’t have to do much other than keep still while someone smacks our bums or whacks a cane into us.

But in this movie, I could show some ‘personality.’ So, we argued back and forth and then we got to the action.

I bend over the sloping school desk as instructed. I’m just the right size to go over comfortably, like a hairgrip that’s been pulled open. My arms stretch over the front of the desk and I grasp hold of its legs, my stomach rests on the wooden top and my legs are straight at the back at a forty-five degree angle.

My job is to stay where I am and let the cameras do the rest. It’s not complicated: we get an establishing shot with me over the desk and the schoolmaster standing close by flexing his cane.

Then the camera moves behind the schoolmaster, so we can see the scene from his POV (point of view). That’s followed by a close-up of my bum.

Cut to cane swishing through the air and contacting with the seat of my short trousers.

And, it was pretty much like that for the six strokes I received. A second camera was pointed at my face. This is the tricky shot. Most models in these films are old hands and a caning isn’t going to have much effect on them. It’s the same in real life. Any boy who has been naughty often enough (or has pretended to be) gets used to the cane and doesn’t show much emotion and can take six-of-the-best with no problem.

It depends what the viewer wants. If they want ‘realism’, the punished boy isn’t going to make much of a fuss. He’ll just take it. But, if you want ‘reaction’ then it has to be faked (or ‘acted’ as the luvvies might have it). Since we are models and not actors these reaction scenes tend to get hammed up a lot. If you’ve seen enough spanking videos, you’ll know what I mean.

But, I was still new to this and as each stroke was delivered I felt it. The first cut took me by surprise; it was so unexpectedly painful it showed on my face. The rest were equally as sharp and my reactions were very true.

The audiences loved this. What they saw was a brat, who had not done his homework and deserved to be punished, arguing the matter with his schoolmaster before going over the desk for the six strokes he so richly deserved: and feeling each and every one of them.

So a star was born and I never looked back. All right I know this sounds a bit big headed, but I did have quite a fan following and vids with me in them still sell better than most of the others. Don’t ask me why. Obviously, some of the viewers have taken a bit of a shine to me. But ‘hot’ is in the eye of the beholder and what one guy thinks is sexy, can be decidedly ‘cold’ to the man in the next seat.

The posh upscale scarlet blazer may have something to do with it. And, the upper-class English accent I used. So many spanking vids feature boys from posh boarding schools, why is that? In real life I’m not posh or upper-class. Quite the opposite actually, I’m from a poor, working-class inner city and was brought up in a council flat. True, I went on to university, but it wasn’t one of the classy ones. It was what some people call “bog standard.”

Anyhow, we did four scenes on that first day, all with me in the scarlet blazer. I can vividly remember that day, not because of the blazer but the excitement I felt, getting my backside whipped. Just about all of the boys who appear in the vids do it for the money. I do too, but I also loved getting spanked by older men. Growing up it was just a fantasy, but after I met Billy at the burger bar, I had the time of my life: getting paid to be spanked; surely, the perfect job.

 

Being turned on by being spanked has its drawbacks, especially in the movies. Swish! made fetish films, not pornography as such. So, the producers did not want to see me with a boner. We’ll, not in the movie, at least.

It was an embarrassment at first and my soldier would stand guard the moment I pulled on my short trousers and knee socks. What is it about short trousers and arousal? I never got hard when every day I put on my real school uniform (black blazer, long grey trousers).

Some bright spark suggested I should pay a visit to the lavatory just before I was ready to go on set. If I polished one off, my todger would behave itself long enough for us to shoot the scene.

It didn’t always work. I still colour up with embarrassment when I remember the time I was playing a boy with the poor school report, Bob who was playing ‘dad’ had sat himself in the straight-backed kitchen chair and instructed me to hang up my scarlet blazer and stand beside him. Then he gave the order to drop my short trousers and Y-fronts. All was going we’ll until ‘dad’ said those timeless words, “Bend over my knee.”

I took one look at dad’s strong thighs and my member throbbed, ready to burst. Clearly, it wanted to shoot off like an exocet missile. Dad gripped hold of it and used it to tug me across his lap into the spanking position. And, I shot a load all over his trousers. The film crew were in stiches, and to be fair, so was dad. Me? I was mortified.

The video was never sold, of course, that’s not what Swish! is about. The viewer has to provide his own orgasm. But, the video, along with other ‘out takes,’ is brought out at party time and everyone enjoys themselves enormously.

I did quite a few videos after that and met a lot of other models after Swish! started using a legit agency to supply the boys. Some of the lads I met did mainstream work, such as advertising (one went on to be a famous face in a clothing catalogue), or nude pictures or more hardcore pornographic work. Many of them did just one spanking movie, but others became regulars: nobody was forced to do anything they didn’t want to.

I loved doing the vids. One of the most popular scenes was also one of the simplest and it got filmed many times. It is the end of the school term and I arrive home (dressed in scarlet blazer and long or short trousers, according to preference) with my end-of-term report. It is not good. In the video there is a minimal amount of scolding from ‘dad’ played by Bob, who sends me to my bedroom to change into my pyjamas. Once I have done this strip-tease, I return to the living room, “I told you if your school report was bad I’d give you a spanking,” says dad, and we are off.

Cut to me looking sorry for myself.

“Take down your pyjamas.”

 

Cut to me undoing the drawstring at the waist and the PJ bottoms falling to my feet. I step out of them.

Dad sits on the couch and I lay flat across his knees. Then the way Swish! does, you see my pert bum, dad’s hand rises, dad’s hand falls and SPLATS! on to one bare cheek, then the other. The viewer gets to see my bum, dad’s hand, my face grimacing, my bum again, dad’s hand again from about four different angles, until my globes are glowing red.

When the spanking is over there’s the close-up of me rubbing my sore bum. At this point the viewer should be reaching for the tissues.

Sometimes at Swish! I played the school prefect, and in these movie fantasies the prefects caned or spanked the younger pupils.

Bruce was my ‘fag’ and in England that doesn’t mean what you think it does. A ‘fag’ is the youngster who is a servant for an older boy. So, Bruce hadn’t cleaned my shoes properly, or had burnt the toast (the plotlines weren’t that important) and was to go over my knee for a bare-bottomed hand spanking.

This was Bruce’s first video and he was a bit apprehensive about just how hard I’d smack his rear-end. The director had assured him that you can’t do much damage with the palm of the hand on a fleshy arse, so he shouldn’t worry. Anyhow, the rule always was if the boy who is being beaten wanted it to stop, he just had to holler.

I was apprehensive too, but not for the same reason. I had never spanked anyone before, either in the movies or in real life and I wasn’t sure how to do it. That might sound daft; surely you just smack your hand into the boy’s bum; what more could there be to it?

Bob had given me some instructions, using Phil, another of the Swish! lads, as his prop. There is an art to connecting the palm of the hand across the globes, making sure that you go all the way round the circuit, from the top of the buttock near the spine, to the crease where they meet the thighs. The other consideration was how hard and how fast to deliver the smacks.

In the film the boy would lay across my lap submissively, but in real life, the spanker might also have to contend with a boy fighting to be released from his punishment. That would mean you had to pin him down somehow.

No such problem with Swish! In this video Bruce would take it lying down: or, more accurately, face down.

I had one other concern: how would my trooper behave? I genuinely feared that I might have an accident when I took Bruce across my knee, so I made a pit stop at the bathroom just before going on set. There wasn’t enough toilet paper to clean up the mess properly and I went on smelling of cum.

The scene went well. First there were a few words between the prefect and the fag, establishing the scene. Close-up of Bruce looking apprehensive. Then, me putting a wooden chair in the centre of the room. Bruce unbuckling his belt, pulling down his short trousers and dropping his pants. He had to bend across my knee several times, so it could be captured by the camera from different angles.

Then, the spanking commenced. My hand, his bum, his face, his bum, my hand, my face, his bum, a long-shot of me seated upright in the chair with Bruce across my knee; his face in agony; me putting effort into a downward stroke; my hand connecting with his globes; his bum getting redder; my handprints on his bottom.

I spanked on and on until the director said “cut.” Then, we had Bruce getting off my lap, three times over. Then close-up of his sore bum; then bum shot of Bruce bending over to pull up his pants; pants snug against his buttocks; back over for the pulling up of the short trousers; tuck in shirt; followed by close-up of Bruce in tears.

 

Genuine tears. A star was born.

Bruce looked across at me and grinned. “Bloody Hell,” was all he said, as Bob and Alan came on set to congratulate him on completing his first Swish! video.

Spanking videos are not documentaries: Bob and Alan said this often when people pointed out their more unrealistic plotlines. After all, how many headmasters do you know who take their eighteen-year-old sixth-form students across their knee and spank them on their bare bottoms? If that happened at my school we would have ended up in the Sunday papers.

I starred in one of the more outlandish plots as a pizza delivery boy. A nearby take-away advertised that if its delivery took longer than thirty minutes you got the pizza free. In our version if the pizza was late the delivery boy got a spanking. And reader, I was that boy.

Filming was getting more sophisticated and for this one we went to Billy’s burger bar in the early hours of the morning, after it was closed, and filmed me and my boss packaging up the pizza. Then there were shots of me on my bike dressed in a uniform from the burger bar (the name was carefully disguised) and finally the real business was filmed at Bob’s flat. It felt like we were making a real movie.

I arrive late. I am sorry, there was a delay and it wasn’t my fault. Not good enough. Mr Ledger, the customer, will hear no excuses, he knows his consumer entitlements. He opens a drawer in the kitchen and takes out a heavy wooden spoon. I am soon facing down across the kitchen table and Mr Ledger is whacking away at me with delight. With my polyester trousers and underpants on, I hardly feel a thing.

So, down they come. First the trousers are lowered to my knees and I am pressed down once again over the table. Then, a few dozen smacks with the spoon later my pants follow for another fifty or so.

Surely, I have now fulfilled my obligation to the customer. Not yet. For no obvious reason that I can see, I am taken into the living room where, conveniently, there is a school-type cane. I am soon over the arm of a couch and Mr Ledger proceeds to give me a dozen on the trousers, a dozen on the pants, and, you’ve guessed it, a dozen on the bare.

I am crying buckets (anything Bruce can do, I can do better). Does Mr Ledger have a heart and let me return to the pizza parlour?

No, he does not. Now, I must take an over-the-knee, bare-bottom hand spanking. My rump is raw: no makeup. After three minutes of hand spanking, I am at last allowed to stand and leave the house.

The final shot is of me, gingerly mounting my bicycle and wincing as, unsteadily, I ride off.

No, spanking videos are not documentaries.

 

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Over the boss’s knee

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The paying guest

Johnny should have realised there was something odd about Gleves the first time he visited him. The clue was the books on corporal punishment in his study.

It was midsummer and Johnny had been sleeping rough for months after he escaped down south from Doncaster. Things had not gone well. He had no job, nowhere to live and no prospects. Then, some busy-body from a church told him about Gleves.

It was a large house; far too big for Gleves to live in on his own. That’s why, Johnny was told, he rented three or four bedrooms to young men as paying guests.

It was so different from the flat on the sixteenth storey he had lived in in the grimy northern town. The huge house with its driveway and immaculately-kept gardens intimidated him. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

He stood hesitating on the front step. No, he couldn’t go through with it. This place was way out of his league. He was just turning to retrace his steps back to the main road when the door flew open behind him.

It was Gleves. “You must be Johnny, come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

Oh yes! Gleves was delighted. Father O’Malley certainly knew how to choose them. The eighteen-year-old wore a sleeveless black vest and judging by the sun-tanned skin, he had not worn it that often this summer. His jeans were non-descript and probably bought at Primark, but they hung from his hips perfectly. When he turned slightly, Gleves took in the fabulous sweep of his buttocks. The jeans needed washing – yes, Gleves thought, let me take them off you and put them in the machine for you. Here, right now.

Had the boy even started shaving yet? His clear skin and open face suggested not. His dark brown hair parted down the centre needed cutting.

Gleves was in his sixties with a round face and a rather weak jaw line. His hair was turning silver. His rimless round ‘National Health’ glasses slid down his nose. He wore a paisley sleeveless pullover and light brown cavalry twill trousers that had not seen the inside of a dry cleaner’s for a considerable time.

Gleves startled the boy by taking his hand in a formal hand-shake. Nobody had ever done that to him before; treating him as an equal. Johnny followed the owl-like man into the house; maybe, he thought, this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Gleves deposited the boy in the study. “Sorry,” he wheezed, “I have some baking in the kitchen I must attend to, I shan’t be long.” Then, waving his arm in the general direction of a large leather couch, he gave a warm smile and said, “Make yourself at home.”

The room reminded Johnny of the local library in Doncaster where, in happier times, he had loved to lose himself among the books. For a while, it had helped him escape the realities of his grim life.

A whole wall was lined floor to ceiling with shelving stacked with books. Absent-mindedly Johnny looked through the book shelves. He was not surprised that many of the titles were religious books of one sort or another; others were classic novels: Dickens and so on. But, he wasn’t expecting to see the books on one shelf. One was called The History of Corporal Punishment. Another was Thy Rod, Thy Staff, which was also about CP.

Suddenly the door burst opened and in rushed Gleves, apologising profusely about leaving him alone.

They talked politely. It was news to Johnny, but the busy-body at the church had already recommended him to Gleves. How could that be? He had only met the man once and he wasn’t sure he even knew his name. Father Something was it?

Gleves told him he already had two other paying guests and he was happy to take Johnny on similar terms. Johnny didn’t think to ask what these “terms” might be, assuming they were to do with payment of rent and the like. The next day he moved in.

There were two other lads lodging with the vicar: Jimmy a twenty-year-old and Tony who was eighteen. They had both been homeless and been found by Fr O’Malley and sent to Gleves as likely paying guests.

It was Jimmy, who on Johnny’s second day at the house, hinted at what “terms” Gleves meant the day he first met him. There were rules and regulations for staying and these went some way beyond things like meal times and curfews. It was alright Jimmy hinted as long as you kept to the rules.

It was just after breakfast the next day that Johnny learnt what happened if you did not. He hurried down the stairs and passed the open kitchen door. He needed to rush or he would miss his breakfast.

But, despite his urgent need to be fed, he stopped in his tracks, drawn by a heavy thudding noise from the kitchen.

Cautiously he approached the partly open door. Thwack! Once again there was that thudding noise; this time followed by a shrill “Ouch!!”

Gingerly, Johnny inched open the door an inch or so wider.

Thud!

“Owwwww!”

Jimmy, dressed in tight white PE shorts and a mauve singlet, was bent across a kitchen chair, gripping on to the wooden seat for his dear life. And, behind him, red in the face, was Gleves, brandishing a large wooden school-type paddle.

They both had their backs to the door and Johnny had an uninterrupted view of proceedings. He drew in his breath at precisely the same time Jimmy drew in his.

Whack!!!

“Ouch! Oww!Oww!”

Jimmy lifted the front two legs of the chair clear off the ground as the pain shot from his tight bottom through his body.

“Woww, woww, woww!” he seemed to be singing in a vain effort to stifle the pain.

Gleves stepped forward, pushed Jimmy forcefully in the back until the seat was back on the ground and then gripping the distressed twenty-year-old around the waist he crashed the wood into the seat of his thin cotton shorts six more times. Rapidly. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!

It sounded to Johnny like machinegun fire rattling around the kitchen.

Suddenly, Gleves released his hold on the sorrowful boy who bolted upright and began the spanking dance; hopping from one foot to the other, clutching both buttocks in the palms of his hands while wailing from the pain.

It was over, the boy was about to be dismissed.

Sensing he was about to be caught spying, Johnny turned towards the dining room.

Too late.

“Johnny! What are you doing? Come here. This instance!” It was Gleves and he was not a happy man. The confused boy ran through the front door and up the driveway to safety.

That was Johnny’s first experience of Gleves and his terms. He was astonished by what he had seen, but strangely intrigued. He wanted to know more: what had Jimmy done to deserve his spanking? Why had he allowed himself to submit to it?

Johnny walked the streets aimlessly, his mind reeling with what he had witnessed and his heart was beating a little faster with excitement.

He didn’t have long to wait to learn more about Gleves and his terms. As soon as he returned he was summoned to the study. The room stank of cigarettes and Gleves lit another as he gestured Johnny to sit on the heavy leather couch.

Then Gleves spoke as if was the most natural thing in the world for a landlord to spank his paying guests.

He told Johnny about the rules in his house and how every boy who lodged there was required to get a job.

Johnny snorted at that: it was easier said than done, he told Gleves.

Gleves was not deterred. Poorly-paid jobs were easy to come by for people with places to live. He would arrange something with the local supermarket. Don’t worry, he assured the eighteen-year-old, he would be able to afford the rent. He didn’t tell Johnny, but Gleves assured himself, that this arrangement with the paying guests was his way of performing a civic duty.

Then Gleves told the startled boy, he must make a “commitment.” Johnny paled significantly; a “commitment,” was Gleves running some kind of religious cult?

His new landlord explained that each lad drew up his own list of objectives, things he wanted to achieve, and a plan of how he intended to meet them. Then, the lad set about reaching those objectives by identifying a number of things he had to do. If he failed to achieve, he suffered punishment. And, here that meant corporal punishment.

Johnny must draw up his own list of objectives and he too would be subjected to whackings if he fell short.

Johnny had never heard anything like this before. Was he serious? How could he be?

Johnny broke off from his thoughts when he realised the Mr Gleves was speaking.

“So, those are my terms. If you want to we can make an agreement. But, if you don’t want to, you can leave in the morning. But, if you decide to stay, and I hope that you will, you will be subject to my terms.”

Johnny didn’t know if his jaw actually, physically, dropped, but he was gobsmacked by what he had heard. He had never come across anything like this before in his life.

Mr Gleves eyed the boy over the top of his round glasses as he sank further back in his green leather armchair. He knew the boy would be astounded by his proposition; all the boys had been.

Johnny might have grown up disadvantaged, but he was no fool. He was on to a good thing: snatched from the streets, given a room in a grand house, fed regularly and with proper paid employment. He had a home, job, and soon he would have money in his pockets. Now, he had prospects for the future. Why would he blow such a chance?

Johnny’s breathing was irregular and he felt giant butterflies in his stomach. His temples were throbbing. He stood up from the couch and saw the look of disappointment in Gleves’s eyes. He believed Johnny was about to walk out on him and his terms.

“Sir,” Johnny heard himself saying. He seemed to be a very long way away. “Sir, I accept your terms,” his voice quivered.

Gleves caught Johnny’s eye. They intuitively understood one another.

“Really boy?”  Gleves flashed a warm smile. “How can I be certain?”

Johnny’s usually pale face flushed deep scarlet as he stared at the carpet with embarrassment.

Gleves’s warm smile never faded. “Come here Johnny, let’s test you out.” He rose from his chair and took the boy gently by the elbow and guided him across to the other side of the study. For a moment, he let Johnny go, while he moved a straight-backed wooden chair away from a wall and into space in the middle of the room.

He sat himself down on the chair, then reaching out for Johnny’s arm again; he pulled him closer to him. Neither of them spoke, but Johnny was certain the thumping of his heart must have been echoing across the room, breaking the silence. Gleves unbuckled the boy’s belt, released the button and zipper of his trousers and pulled them down to his shins.

Then, his orange briefs headed in the same direction.

Johnny stood his ground, uncertain if he wanted to go ahead with this. He was about to let an older man take him across his knee and spank him on his bare bottom: something that no one, not even his despised father, had ever done before.

Gleves raised his head to look directly at Johnny. No words were spoken; none had to be. He thought he saw consent in the boy’s eyes and in his submissive demeanour. He reached for his arm and in one movement guided him across his lap.

The grey carpet had a pattern once; maybe it was green, but Johnny couldn’t tell. Working this out was not important at this time. Far more important was the fact that the reason he was able to study the carpet was because he was bent across the knee of the old man, his trousers around his ankles, his pants yanked down, and his bare bottom exposed, buttocks clenched, waiting to be spanked.

He stared at the carpet; his heart was racing so fast he thought he could feel the blood rushing through his ears. He felt Gleves’s hand gently stroke his bottom in circular motions: first the left cheek, then the right; then across both.

He felt his shirt being neatly folded up, exposing his lower back to the cool air of the room. Then, there was a movement in Gleves’s body as he raised his hand high and brought it down on Johnny’s bum with a resounding crack. Johnny’s bottom jerked high and he involuntarily let out a gasp.

As Gleves began to cover the whole of Johnny’s bottom with more smacks, he had to hold him firmly in position as the eighteen-year-old’s cries and kicking got worse. After about a dozen spanks it felt as if the whole of Johnny’s bottom must be glowing red, from one side of his cheeks to another, and from the top of his bottom to the tender tops of his thighs: all was aflame.

Johnny gritted his teeth as the sting began to spread and then deepen to a burning sensation. The slaps were hard, steady, and fast paced. He kicked his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned his body all over the old man’s lap, but he held the boy tight with his big arm wrapped around his middle.

Spank Spank Spank. “Owww, ok, please, ow, that hurts, oww,” Johnny pleaded, but to no avail. Gleves was in charge and he would only stop spanking when he was ready to do so. And, that would be when he felt Johnny had suffered enough. He knew his boys hated being spanked, which was why it was so effective.

He covered every inch of the bum, making sure there was no untouched spot. The heavy slaps from his hand stung and smarted, raining down pain for a long time. At last, after at what felt like several hundred hard swats he stopped and told Johnny to get up. The boy’s backside burned like the fires of hell.

He gasped for air. He was a grown man, crying like a five-year-old. He just stood there rubbing his bum. At long last Gleves told Johnny to pull up his trousers and pants and go to his room. Johnny thanked him before leaving his study, closing the door quietly behind him.

He had spent the last few minutes draped across Gleves’s lap with his trousers around his ankles and his underpants around his knees. Gleves had given the boy’s bottom and the top of his legs a thorough spanking. Not one square millimetre of his rear end had avoided the expert attention. His bum was aglow.

Johnny hurried to his room; he didn’t want to meet any of the other lads. Even though they would have understood his situation, he wasn’t sure that he did.

Once safely in the room, he whipped his trousers and pants down, bending over in front of the mirror to inspect the damage. He backed off in surprise as he saw the angry, raw marks adorning his buttocks. His bum was red and throbbing. He could see the outline of Gleves’s fingers, where they had pounded into him. Had a hand spanking really done so much damage?

He lay on the bed, his hands gently massaging the burn in his bum.

Over the next few days Johnny drew up his personal plan. It was pretty simple really, concentrating on what he wanted to achieve with his new job. Gleves tried to persuade him to include something more personal (like finding a wife), but Johnny successfully resisted.

They added a few details to do with the lodgings themselves: like performing communal chores such as vacuuming the carpets and washing up the dishes and the task was completed.

Johnny felt surprisingly liberated by the experience. For the first time in his life he had some idea about what he really wanted to achieve and how he was going to do it. And, of course, the penalty, for failure: a very sore bum indeed.

 

Other stories you might like

 The Spanking Vicar 1. The new tenant

 Rules of the house

 The casting couch

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

COMING SOON: More adventures of The Spanking Vicar

Tommy, naked except for a pair of green briefs, cowered away in fear. He had seen Rev Crick in foul moods before, but he had never witnessed anything like this. His fear turned to terror when Crick grabbed him by the hair and hauled him out of bed.

Within seconds they were out the door and Crick was dragging Tommy to the stairs. They both almost tumbled down them as Crick in his rage pulled the boy by the hair along behind him. Alerted by the commotion, the other lads rushed from the dining room in time to see Rev Crick open his study door and push Tommy through.

Tommy stood shivering in his underpants: shaking mostly from terror, rather than the cold. He watched in dread as Crick fetched a thin whippy cane from his special cupboard.

 

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.

 

Starting on Monday 25 April and continuing for the following five Mondays. Rev Crick dominates his village. Nobody is safe; not sixth-form schoolboys, scout leaders, or the village cricket team …

 

Previous episodes of The Spanking Vicar.

Episode 1: the new tenant

Episode 2: the reckoning

Episode 3: the house call

Episode 4: the missed curfew

Episode 5: reefer madness

Episode 6: the village fete

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The TV repairman

cane (6)

Ding, dong! Ding, dong! The front doorbell rang.

Damn and blast! Sanderson, the aging bachelor, cursed silently in the kitchen. He was up to his elbows in flour and dough. It must be the television repairman. He’s late; he promised to be here hours ago. Workmen, damn them, they’re so unreliable.

His paying guests had been getting restless without the television to watch. He had three of them at present. It was a huge house with many spare bedrooms. Why not let them out to homeless teenagers? It was his civic duty, Sanderson told those who puzzled over the arrangement.

Worried that the pie he was working on would spoil if left too long, he hurried to the door and opened it.

“Good afternoon sir. I’m Gerald from Acme TV Repairs. I’ve come to fix your set.”

Sanderson hoped he wasn’t gaping. It was an Adonis standing before him. He couldn’t be a TV repairman surely; he was no more than a boy.

But he was. There in his hand was an ID card with photograph and emblazoned across the breast of the young man’s gleaming white shirt was the company name and logo.

“Come in, come in,” Sanderson spluttered. He drank in the sight as the repairman brushed past him and entered the hallway. He wasn’t very tall, but he had the build of an athlete. Muscles bulged under the open-necked shirt and Sanderson could tell the boy was probably hairless underneath.

His deep suntanned face emphasised his dazzling white teeth and ruby red lips. His light brown hair was closely-cropped, rather like a US Marine’s, and his opal eyes shone when he spoke.

“The television set is in the study, please come this way.”

Gerald flushed. The “study;” what an evocative word that was to him. It conjured images of ancient boarding schools. And that meant headmasters’ studies; which meant headmasters in flowing academic gowns, carrying crook-handled canes. It was only a short step from there to think of schoolboys summoned to the study for six-of-the-best.

As long as he could remember Gerald had fantasised about himself dressed as a schoolboy bending over and submissively offering up his bottom to be thrashed by a headmaster. He avidly read ancient storybooks with names like the Gem and the Magnet that he had discovered on the Internet. They featured the adventures of boys in boarding schools which often led to a master swiping an ashplant cane into the stretched backsides of his naughty pupils.

Sanderson opened a door and ushered Gerald inside. “If you don’t mind I’m in the middle of making a pie. If I don’t get back to it, it will spoil.” And, without waiting for a response he dashed back to the kitchen.

Gerald stood just inside the study door. It was so unlike rooms in the houses he usually visited. The wall on the left side was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving from the door right across to the window, though the last foot or so was appeared to be made of oak panels. The shelves were stacked with books; it was like being in a library. In the middle of the shelves was a tall thin cupboard with a locked door and a smoked glass panel.

There was an unlit open fire and photographs around the room. A desk was straight ahead of him and filling up the rest of the room were two horsehair armchairs, a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs and a padded Chesterfield couch.

Gerald’s eyes rested on the Chesterfield couch. It was large, solid and made of black leather. It was exactly like the one in a video he loved to watch. A sixth-form schoolboy called Alan had been caught smoking in the lavatories and had been ordered to the study. There he is ordered, “Take down your trousers and bend over the Chesterfield.” Without hesitation he pulls his trousers down and lowers himself across the arm of the couch. He is wearing tight white underpants. Unceremoniously, the schoolmaster takes a curve-handled rattan cane and swishes six strokes into the boy’s quivering buttocks.

Gerald loved that scene so much that in bed he jerked himself off as he played it over and over again in his head. Only this time the boy bent over the Chesterfield, his trousers at his ankles and his bum held high, was not Alan it was Gerald himself.

A clock on the bookshelf chimed four o’clock. Oh lor, was that the time? Gerald opened his tool box, extracted a screwdriver and began to take off the back of the television set.

In the kitchen, Sanderson pounded the pastry with extra vigour. He could not get the sight of that young man out of his mind. Had he ever seen a boy so gorgeous? His shoulders and chest were broad and tapered down to an enviably slim waist; his long, athletic legs were crowned by a neat pair of buttocks.

Then there was the uniform he wore. The pale-grey immaculately-pressed trousers and gleaming white open-necked shirt made him look like a senior schoolboy. If he wore a striped tie and a blue blazer, he would look like one of the sixth-formers at the local school.

The television set was easily repaired and Gerald was ready to go. But where had the old man disappeared to? He had no choice; he would have to wait for his return.

The Chesterfield was troubling him. He had never seen one in real life, let alone bent across it for a caning from a headmaster. Even as he stood simply staring at it, he could visualize that Alan, the boy in the video, was there with him in the room; first he takes down his trousers and then offers up his beefy bum for the cane.

Gerald had fantasized often enough, but he had never had the chance to actually experience a caning. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools before he was even born and, of course, parents no longer spanked their children at home. What he wondered, would it feel like to bend over a Chesterfield as if he were a naughty schoolboy?

Slowly he walked over to the huge couch. His heart raced as he stood behind the Chesterfield and realized he was the perfect height to drape over its back. If he did that and stretched his arms out in front of him with his palms flat down on the heavy leather seat his bum would be in the perfect position for an imaginary headmaster or maybe a head boy to whip a cane across the seat of his trousers.

He could feel his cock stiffen as he recounted the dream. He knew that tonight after this little experience he would probably have a humdinger of a wank, imagining what it might be like to be beaten in this study across this very couch.

But, wouldn’t his orgasm be even more spectacular if he really had been across the couch, head low, bottom high, waiting for the punishment to begin?

Do it Gerald, go ahead do it. He silently dared himself to bend over the couch just like he was a naughty boy; just as Alan the smoking sixth-former in the video had done.

His cock pressed hard against the front of his trousers. His penis definitely wanted him to do this. So like all other young men, he listened to his dick. Gerald took a deep breath, unbuckled his belt, popped the button at the top of his trousers, lowered the zipper and let them fall gently down to his knees. Then he rubbed his hands together and lowered himself across the arm of the couch just like Alan in the video.

Gerald had no way of seeing what he looked like, but he knew he was not the picture of Alan because whereas that boy wore traditional Y-front underpants, Gerald had on a pair of loose-fitting lemon boxer shorts. He could smell the old leather of the couch and his erect penis pressed into the arm of the couch.

Gerald closed his eyes and conjured up the image of the schoolmaster in the video; the one who gave Alan his six-of-the-best. Swipe! Gerald visualized the first cut bouncing off his taut bottom. Swipe! Number two landed just below the first and the imagined pain in his bottom was rising.

Swipe! The study door opened. “Sorry to have left you …” Sanderson breezed into the room full of apologies. He stopped dead. There bent across the arm of his Chesterfield with his trousers at his knees and his gorgeous arse held high was the Adonis.

“Eh, oh, um, sorry,” Sanderson was speechless. For a second he thought he was still in the kitchen baking bread and this was the trial-run for a fantasy he might enjoy in bed later that night.

Gerald sprang to his feet, his face as red as he hoped his arse might be after a real thrashing from a headmaster. “I, I, well, ermm…” He too was lost for words.

The two men stared at each other, both frantically trying to find something to say that was coherent.  Sheepishly Gerald pulled up his trousers and zipped and buckled himself up.

Sanderson once again appraised Gerald. He was one of the nicest boys he had ever seen outside of a magazine or video. The kid showed a good muscle definition. He checked out Gerald’s chest, first noticing the small nipples pointing out and then a delicately etched rib cage. Next he looked at the belly button; the stomach was flat, not an ounce of fat showed. He had already admired the pert buttocks, offered up to him only moments previously. It was an arse crying out to be spanked.

Gerald stared back at him. Sanderson had a round face, with rather weak jaw line, and dark brown hair that was grey at the temples. He wore gold rimmed glasses that sat two thirds the way down his nose making him look like an owl. He had on a shabby cardigan and grey flannel trousers that were a bit thin at the knees.

Sanderson was first to break the silence. He had a jolly good idea what was going on and Gerald knew that Sanderson knew.

Sanderson was thinking about his own days as a younger man, when people never shared their feelings; and of all the opportunities that were lost because he could not find a companion with his interests. Only when well into his thirties after he had found a mentor did his life really open up. If he had learnt anything from those days it was to take a chance on life. A little plan was hatching inside his head.

“Gerald,” he said gruffly, looking the young man intimidatingly in the eye. “You promised to visit me this morning to fix my television set but you were several hours late. What is your explanation?”

Gerald flushed uncertain how to respond. Did the man know his secret?

“Well,” Sanderson intoned. He had some experience playing the headmaster in these little games and he was well practiced in intimidating little boys. “I’m waiting for an explanation, boy.”

Gerald wriggled a little and stared down at the carpet. He had no experience playing the role of a naughty little boy. What was happening here came naturally.

“Speak up boy. Don’t try my patience. It will be the worst for you.”

The truth was that Gerald had skipped off work in the middle of the morning to go shopping in town. He was looking for a special top to wear at a party at the coming weekend, but it had been difficult to find and took longer than expected.

His heart thumped so hard he swore it would burst through his chest. Where was this questioning going to lead to?

“I went into town,” he croaked.

Ah! Now Sanderson had an angle. “You left work without permission. You know it is explicitly against the rules.”

Gerald flushed scarlet. Oh Christ! Could this really be happening to him?

“Why did you leave work without permission boy? Where did you go?”

Gerald told him the truth. It had really happened. He had really broken the rules: he could get into serious trouble if his boss found out.

“And, do you think you should be punished for this?” Sanderson gave him his get-out-of-jail card. This was Gerald’s call; he would decide what should happen next. Gerald’s head was spinning wildly; but already he knew the answer.

“Yes, Sir,” he could hardly believe he had plucked up the courage to say it.

Sanderson grimaced. “Right boy, stand there,” he barked and pointed to a spot in the middle of the room.

In a daze, but entirely sure this is what he wanted to happen, Gerald shuffled into position. He had a perfect view as the owl-like man opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged about inside until he found what he as seeking. He emerged with a key which he took to the tall cupboard with the smoked glass front.

Gerald’s eyes widened as the cupboard door opened revealing two old-fashioned school curve-handled canes, just like the ones he read about in the Magnet and Gem.

Sanderson selected one of the canes and swiped it through the air. Gerald stared wide-eyed as the swishing noise echoed around the study. Sanderson pretended not to notice and examined the cane thoughtfully, as if he had never before seen it. Feigning dissatisfaction, he returned it to the cupboard and removed the second cane and flexed it between his hands, as if measuring it up. In truth there was hardly any difference between the two.

He took it from the cupboard and swished it through the air to show the boy what it could do. Gerald looked apprehensive, as well he might.

“Stand by the desk,” he pointed with the cane. Gerald moved in the right direction, but stopped short by two or three feet.

“Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more.

Sanderson stood within his eye line, swished his cane through the air two or three more times, then tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Although he had no personal experience of the cane, Gerald knew how it ought to be done: he learnt it from the videos he loved so much. With his heart bounding so hard he was sure blood would soon pour out of his ears he leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk.

Two attractive, nicely formed buttocks became fully outlined at the top of long slim legs, encased in close fitting pale-grey trousers. The trousers had tightened significantly around his buttocks, and waves of anxiety mixed with excitement ebbed and flowed through him.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.” Sanderson stood to his side a full cane length from him and after bending his knees a little he tapped the tip of the cane against the edge of his shapely-moulded left buttock cheek.

Gerald’s cock was at full attention, pressing hard into the edge of the desk.

Sanderson tapped away with his cane, took aim and then after drawing his arm back a little, he thwipped the cane across both buttocks.

Gerald whelped and could feel a thin red line appear under his trousers. His blood pressure was soaring, rushing to all parts of his body, but especially to his groin which was throbbing much more than his backside.

Sanderson swished another cut across the very centre of Gerald’s finely-sculptured globes; this time a little harder than before. Gerald gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied. He felt it and realised he enjoyed the sensation of the glowing pain very much. Never before in his life, not even when wanking to the most exciting corporal punishment videos, had he experienced such sexual pleasure.

Sanderson landed the third and fourth cuts close to the previous two. Had Gerald been an experienced receiver of the cane, Sanderson would have landed them right on top of the first two; but he feared the agony of this might just put the boy off CP for life. Even so, Gerald was jerking his body from side to side; a reflex action against the pain.

Sanderson thwipped down strokes five and six. Gerald’s head rose from the desk and he brought his arms back so he could bury his face in them. It was over: six strokes of the cane. It was nowhere near “six-of-the-best;” that (Sanderson fervently hoped) could be reserved for the boy’s next visit.

Gerald was still lying across the desk, unsure what to do next. His bottom was sore, but he was not in agony. He was a little disappointed; he had expected a caning to hurt much more. His cock still throbbed like mad, but he hadn’t been able to come.

“Stand up Gerald.”

He stood up and Sanderson was able to look him in the face. He read his thoughts.

“Well boy, I hope you have learned your lesson, but if you are before me again for any offence, your punishment will be much more severe. We’ll see how much you like the cane with your trousers at your ankles.”

Gerald did not reply; he wasn’t sure what he was expected to say. The beating had been a little disappointing, but next time, he felt sure, it would be awesome.

“You should leave now Gerald, my paying guests will be returning any time now.”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

No further words were exchanged that afternoon between the two men. Gerald retrieved his tools, returned to his van and drove away, passing a youngster on a bicycle at the end of the driveway.

Sanderson replaced the cane in the cupboard and was making his way back to the kitchen when the front door opened and James Phipps entered. James was the most recent of Sanderson’s lodgers to join the household. He was nearly six feet tall and well built. He had thick brown hair (overdue for a cut!) and probably had not shaved for a couple of days, even though he needed to.

James was twenty years old and worked at a nearby supermarket. Even though his face was suntanned, he clearly blanched when he saw Sanderson waiting for him in the hallway.

“Ah, James,” Sanderson beamed. “I was hoping to catch you. We have a little unfinished business regarding your missed curfew.”

James thought of arguing, but experience, very painful experience, had taught him never to contradict his landlord.

“Follow me, please,” Sanderson was deceptively cordial as he made his way back into his study.

Miserably, James did as he was asked. As he entered the room, Sanderson was already placing one of the straight-backed chairs into the very centre of the study. Glumly, James watched as his landlord strode across the room and picked up a bedroom slipper from in front of the open fire.

Then, Sanderson sat himself down in the chair, spread his legs wide and called over to James.

“Come now, James, you know what is expected.”

 

Other stories you might like

The housebreaker

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com