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.
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.”
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second