COMING SOON: Mr Hennessey’s boys

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Meet Howard, Noah, Ethan and Timothy.

Starting on Friday 3 June and continuing for the next three Fridays, follow their adventures as they provide their unique service across town.

 

He stood hand firmly on top of his green-and-black school cap, nose almost touching the wall. He could feel the beautifully tailored mid-grey short trousers hugging the contours of his buttocks. He caught a whiff of dry-cleaning fluid on the crisp green-and-black striped school blazer. He reckoned he looked every inch a prep school boy in his grey shirt, green-and-black striped tie, a grey V-neck jumper with green-and-black trimming and long grey socks with a green hoops around the tops.

  • Extract from Howard’s story

 

I felt the firm, cold, smooth paddle move slowly and silently across my bare curves. It was heavier than I imagined. I felt it move away as if it had identified its target and then like a bolt of lightning it returned with a smack that tore the breath from my body. So sudden and so startling was the impact that I surprised myself by letting a yell of protest burst out from the back of my throat. My whole body arched and stiffened in alarm, and my fingers clawed at the carpet pile.

  • Extract from Noah’s story

 

I picked up his bedroom slipper from next to the fireplace where it had been left to warm and handed it to him.

 “You have been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Peter?”

 I agreed that I had.

 “I am going to spank your bottom with my slipper, Peter.”                           

 I tried to look suitably alarmed.

 “Go and stand by the arm of the settee.”

 I did as I was told, while he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand.

 Extract from Ethan’s story

 

I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.

 

  • Extract from Timothy’s story

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys starts Friday 3 June 2016

 

Other series of stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

The Private Tutor, episode 1

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar 12. Put back into short trousers

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

The Spanking Vicar, episode 11 is here

 

The church at Aston Budleigh was always packed on a Sunday. The villagers were God-fearing folk and it was usually standing room only when the Rev Crick was in the pulpit.

But, this Sunday despite the crowd one figure stood out among the congregation. Byron Jones sat with a stony face, his dark hooded eyes stared blankly ahead. He had neither looked to the left or the right since taking his place on the pew.

The vicar knew Byron well. He was from a family that had been established in the village for generations. He was eighteen years old and in his final year at the Church of England school. Like the rest of the congregation Byron was dressed in his “Sunday best”. It was hot in the church so he wore no jacket. His sparkling white shirt gleamed in the pale sunlight in the church. He wore a striped tie which made him look like the schoolboy he was. But this day he looked even more like a schoolboy. It was the neatly-pressed grey short trousers and long socks he wore that did it.

His pals in the congregation rocked in mirth. Eighteen years old and put back into short trousers. Only kids wore them; they had all left short trousers behind when they finished primary school aged eleven.

After the sermon Rev Crick sought out Byron’s father. Mr Jones was a timid man; he worked as a clerical officer at the local municipal council. He was the kind of person who would never say boo to a goose. Crick was a little surprised the man had taken such drastic action with his son.

“He needed to be reminded that he is not an adult, he is still a boy. We are his parents and he should do as we tell him,” Mr Jones was robust in his own defence. The vicar nodded sagely. He too believed children were allowed to grow up too quickly. If he had his way they would all wear short trousers until they left school, aged eighteen. But, he also believed, the rule would have to apply to everyone. They either all wore short trousers, or none of them did. To make one boy only wear short trousers would be too humiliating. Other, very suitable, punishments were available for disrespectful teenagers.

“So do you make him wear short trousers all the time?  Even to school?” the vicar asked.

He was rather taken aback by Mr Jones’ angry response. “We wanted to, but the headmaster would not allow it. He said the uniform stated boys must wear grey long trousers.”

The vicar grimaced. He despised the headmaster (he wouldn’t even let his name pass his lips). The man abolished corporal punishment and allowed the boys to run riot.  A Church of England school without the cane; it was unheard of.

Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Mr Jones,” Rev Crick took the man by the elbow and gently took him further away from the crowd of people milling round the entrance to the church, “Might I make a suggestion?”

Mr Jones timidity was evident not only in public. At home he was the same. He never disciplined his children and they had been set no boundaries. Byron had been put back into short trousers at his mother’s insistence. She had got the idea from an article about disciplining teenagers in a women’s magazine.

“Mr Jones,” the vicar began. He knew he was admired by his congregation. They saw him as God’s representative on Earth. They would almost certainly do anything he told them to. “Permit me to deal with Byron. I have much experience in discipline. I think I can find a better solution than humiliating the boy.”

Mr Jones blushed deeply. He had a shrewd idea what the vicar meant by “discipline”, but he would rather not have it spelt out to him.

At four o’clock that afternoon, Byron stood on the worn rug in front of the vicar’s leather-topped desk in the study. He was probably tall for his age; standing at five-feet-ten-inches. His size only served to emphasise the ridiculous sight of a young adult wearing schoolboy’s short trousers. The vicar was no expert at such things, but surely shops did not sell short trousers to fit eighteen year olds. These were proper trousers that fell just above the knee. They were not leisure shorts, the kind you might wear in the summer on the beach.

Rev Crick looked the boy up and down. Apart from his mode of dress, he looked no different from the hundreds of teenagers that attended the schools in nearby Tylesbury. You wouldn’t give a second glance if you saw him in the High Street. Except for his one prominent feature: the eyes. The dark brown pupils stared out from beneath hooded eyes. They were ringed with black. It was as if he had applied eye shadow to further emphasise the darkness of his features.

The vicar had prepared a sermon. He jawed Byron for full on five minutes about his behaviour, his disrespectful attitude and his contempt for his parents. The teenager simply stared ahead blankly. Rev Crick was unnerved. Was the wretched creature even listening to him?

“So, I am going to cane your backside.”

Byron heard that all right. His stony face cracked. He had seen the two canes hanging by hooks on the wall, but had not connected them with his present visit to the vicarage.

Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.

It had the desired effect. The boy was intimidated. His stony stare softened and his eyes moistened.

As if dissatisfied with his choice, the vicar replaced the cane and picked up its companion. This was a little thicker than the first, but it still flexed wonderfully when the vicar tested it between his hands. He swiped it through empty air, creating a tremendous whoosh! that echoed around the otherwise silent study.

“Yes, this will do the job well,” he swished it once more, enjoying the reaction it was having on Byron. The vicar had not yet ordered the boy to bend over and submit himself for caning, but already he was on the verge of tears.

“I have agreed with your father to take over the business of your discipline,” Rev Crick intoned in the pompous way he delivered many of his sermons. He swished the cane through empty air one more time to emphasise his point.

“I shall beat you with this cane and thereafter I shall beat you again every time you misbehave,” he scowled. “But, you will no longer be required to wear short trousers as a punishment.”

Byron stared ahead, impassively.

“I shall give you a choice: twelve strokes on the seat of your trousers or six strokes on your underpants. What’s it to be?”

Tears trickled down Byron’s face, but no words came from his lips.

Swish! Another resounding whoosh! bounced off the walls of the study. “Well boy, what’s it to be?” Rev Crick’s patience was sorely tested.

Bryon stayed silent, his breathing was shallow. The tears were now flowing uncontrollably.

“Pah!” Rev Crick exhaled. He put the cane on his desk and turned to the teenager. Taking the half-elasticated waist of the short trousers at each of the boy’s hips he tugged them down to the boy’s knees. The force of gravity took them further and they rested in a puddle at Byron’s feet.

Crick took the teenager by the arm and with Byron waddling like a penguin, he guided him over to an armchair. It took one shove of the boy’s shoulders to place him face down over the chair’s back. As if in a trance Byron stayed submissively; his mouth tasting the dust from a scatter cushion.

The reverend took up the cane once more. Six-of-the-very-best was the order of the day. This might be Byron’s first-ever caning, but he was a rebellious eighteen-year-old out of control. He had to be reined in. And the vicar intended to use the most traditional method known to God: the rod.

But before that, there was a little housekeeping to do. First he took hold of the boy’s crisp white shirt and pulled it away from the target area. Then, using the palm of his hand he smoothed the cotton white Y-front underpants over each of Byron’s buttocks. By the time he was finished, the cotton fitted like a second skin and the teenager’s crack was perfectly emphasised.

His target was now suitably prepared. As teenagers’ bottoms went, Byron’s was not exceptional in the vicar’s experience. Byron’s legs were hairy and it might be expected that the buttocks were too, but since this was not to be a bare-bottomed caning, that aesthetic was of little relevance. The backside itself was a little fleshy; the cane would sink into meat as it struck home to do its handiwork.

The vicar had many caning techniques. Sometimes he liked to strike home at thirty or forty second intervals and after each swipe he would saunter around the study observing the effect of the cut on the young man’s demeanour. Then he would slash down stroke number two and repeat the theatricals until the punishment was complete.

This time, the vicar would simply bounce six cuts off the teenager’s bum one after the other. Five second intervals would be enough. The intense pain would soar through the boy’s buttocks and travel his entire body. Just as the pain reached his head, the next slash would follow and the agony would start all over again.

Swish. The first stroke landed. The vicar put all his beef into it. It landed across the middle of Byron’s backside. Through the thin white stretched cotton underpants, Crick could see a stripe burning into the flesh. Byron continued his sobbing but there was no other reaction.

Crick lined up the second. It landed almost on top of the first. In the vicar’s experience most lads would yell out as the pain of such a swipe registered. Byron did not. He choked back the bile that had formed in his throat and bit deep into a dusty scatter cushion.

A few seconds later the third stroke landed. Byron’s bum must have been on fire.  Three welts now burned across his seat.

The fourth was by far the hardest so far. It bit deep into the meat of Byron’s fleshy bum. The teenager would carry the marks of this caning for more than a week. The sobbing continued, but so far the lad had not uttered a sound.

The fifth stripe was outlined initially in the white underpants and then it turned bright pink as blood rushed to fill the weal that crossed both cheeks. Then, after a couple of preparatory taps the vicar raised the cane, brought it back behind his shoulder and, without pausing, twisted slightly at the hips and drove the cane firmly into the backside.  Such a stroke would have any youngster howling, no matter how experienced they were in receiving the cane.

Byron seemed impassive. Only the uncontrolled sobbing gave an indication of the teenager’s suffering. Most of the seat of his underpants was pink. At least one deep cut had opened up and blood was flowing. The reverend shuddered. He hoped Mr Jones did not question his son too closely about his ordeal this afternoon.

On command, Byron rose from the back of the armchair. His blank stare had gone and his eyes now shone. Tears and snot covered much of his face. In seconds his short trousers were pulled up. He took a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and wiped himself clean.

Rev Crick could not resist a final sermon and Byron left the study in no doubt that he would be back over the vicar’s armchair if he did not mend his ways.

But, Byron did not care. All he wanted to do was go home, start a bonfire and burn those ruddy short trousers.

 

Other stories you might like

The Private Tutor, episode 1

A punch in the face

Warren’s awakening

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

By order of the court

Mr Creswell paced the length of his front room; it wasn’t a big room and it didn’t take him more than five steps to get from one side to the other. Anxiously he looked at his watch: it was nearly time they should arrive any minute now.

Upstairs in his bedroom his eighteen-year-old son waited, even more anxiously. He knew he was in the most serious trouble possible and within minutes he would be paying for it with his backside.

Mr Creswell stood in front of the bay window, he kept himself hidden from his neighbours behind lace curtains, but he still had a clear view of the street.

Right at the appointed hour a small car pulled up outside the house. You didn’t see many cars in this street and Mr Creswell felt sure his neighbours would all know who his visitors were.

It had been in the local newspaper; in fact, it made quite a big story; it was a most unusual case. Two eighteen-year-old youths including Albie his son had been stealing from a local shop: there was no doubt about it, they were caught red-handed. A few days later the boys appeared at the town’s juvenile court. Mr Creswell expected the worst; a fine or even the short, sharp shock of a spell in juvie jail.

The boys were to get a shock all right, but not the one Mr Creswell dreaded. The magistrate, a pompous ass if ever there was one, Mr Creswell thought, delivered a stern sermon, invoked Jesus Christ and the Bible before finishing his oration with a rousing speech on the quality of mercy.

The magistrate’s idea of “quality of mercy” might not be everybody’s notion. He gave the boys’ parents a most unusual choice. Either the fathers should deliver a sound thrashing to their sons – eight cuts of the cane on their backsides – or they could go to juvenile detention for six weeks.

The boys had no say in the matter, and really the parents had no choice. Mr Creswell was shocked: this was 1956 he complained later to his wife he thought things had changed for the better.

And, that’s how Mr Creswell and his son happened to be awaiting the arrival of the sheriff’s officer, a medical doctor and an independent witness. Any moment now, he expected a second car with local newspapermen to arrive.

Unsurprisingly, the court case aroused a lot of interest in the local newspapers. The boys were not named in the reports, because of their age, but the town was so small Mr Creswell was sure all his neighbours knew his son was involved.

Albie’s partner in crime had been dealt with the previous day. Mr Creswell had been reading about it in the local Advertiser. The account of the boy’s thrashing made his blood run cold: and he was expected to dish out the same treatment to his own son.

The newspaper reported, “The instrument of punishment was a stout four-foot cane borrowed from the town’s police barracks, because, according to a police officer, all schools are closed for the holidays.

“Police officer appointed by the magistrate to supervise the whippings, Det.-Sgt. Joe Wise, arrived in a police car at 7.20 pm outside the western suburbs home of the stepfather of one of the youths.

“The youth, who has allegedly refused to live with his stepfather since his mother remarried, had arrived alone in a taxi at 7.10 pm.

“The youth, big shouldered and tall for his age, entered the home unsmiling and spoke briefly to his weeping mother and his stocky stepfather.

“When Sgt. Wise told the youth to bend over a bed, the youth’s mother ran sobbing from the room.

“Closely watched by the detective, the stepfather raised the cane then brought it down with a crack that could be heard in the street.

“The youth winced with pain, but made no sound as the cane lashed across his buttocks eight times with a one second interval between each blow.

“After the thrashing Dr. Anthony Pound examined the youth for injuries.

“After the boy had been caned by his father, who, Sgt. Wise said, ‘knew his job’, he then told the detective: ‘This is the first and last time this will ever happen to me.’

“Sgt. Wise later told The Advertiser: ‘It will hurt the boy to sit down for a time, but I am really confident he will not come before the courts again.”’

The newspaper report said the boy’s father “knew his job”, well, Mr Creswell thought, that’s more than he himself did. What on earth was he supposed to do? He had never raised a finger in anger to any of his children – he had three boys, and Albie was the youngest. It didn’t occur to him that if he had waved his belt about a bit, his son wouldn’t have turned out to be a thief, but Mr Creswell was too wound up in self-pity to think like that.

Upstairs Albie had heard the car draw up outside the house. He knew that any moment now he would be called down by his father and within seconds he would be getting the most public thrashing of his life. At least he knew what to expect: not only had he read the newspaper account, he had spoken to James, his pal, and gotten his first-hand account.

It wasn’t as bad as the canings he had suffered from Mr West, the headmaster at their school. Now, there was a man who genuinely “knew his job” when it came to crashing a whippy cane into a boy’s upturned arse. He could make the stick lash down again and again on the same spot intensifying the pain beyond human endurance. More than once, James had hobbled out of the headmaster’s study with his underpants stuck to his bum by blood seeping from his wounds.

Albie also had his share of visits to the headmaster; mostly for minor misdemeanours: smoking cigarettes, repeatedly arriving late for school, or once for truanting altogether. His father knew about none of this, he assumed his son’s backside was not acquainted with the rod, preferring to believe Albie was close to being an angel.

He even, definitely mistakenly, believed he was an innocent party in the stealing; whereas in fact, his son was a well-known delinquent among the town’s shopkeepers and had they known he was one of the boys under the lash they read about in the newspaper, they would have thoroughly approved, and some of them would regret they were not permitted to witness the caning themselves.

Mr Creswell was appalled to see the detective gather the cane from the back seat of the car and then brandish it before him quite openly. He rushed to open the door to let his visitors into the house. If he thought his speed of action meant his neighbours would not get wind of what was happened, he was to be mistaken. Already doors up and down the street were opening and before long a small crowd would gather: adults and children alike. One or two parents, perhaps, encouraged by the Advertiser’s description that the crack of the cane “could be heard in the street.” What an excellent way to teach their own children of the painful consequences of delinquency.

The detective, doctor and witness introduced themselves to Mr Creswell. He didn’t take much notice; he wanted this over as quickly as Albie probably did.

Sgt. Wise took control. “Shall we go into the lounge room? Do you have a large chair or a couch? Something for the boy to stretch across while you do the necessary?”

Meekly Mr Creswell followed him into the room.

“This will do nicely,” Sgt. Wise said eying a green upholstered armchair. “Just the right height.”

Without seeking permission, he pulled the chair into the centre of the room and swivelled it one-hundred-and-eighty degrees so that its back pointed into the room. He took a couple of practice swishes to ensure there was sufficient room to swing the cane high and lash it down into an imaginary backside. The ceiling’s a bit low, he thought, but there was nothing he could do about that, all the rooms would be the same, he supposed.

He handed the cane to Mr Creswell. “Do you know how to use one of these? No, here, let me demonstrate. Philips, if you would be so kind.”

There must have been a prior agreement made between the two men, because with no further ado, the man Philips, the so-called independent witness, took two paces forward and dived, rather too eagerly perhaps, across the back of the chair. Within two seconds, he was in position, head low, bottom high, legs a yard or so apart.

“Stand about a yard to his left, aim for this spot here on the furthest buttocks, that way you will ensure the cane swipes across both cheeks equally. Once you’ve got your spot, pull the cane back in an arc,” Sgt. Wise demonstrated with some proficiency, “and land it across the seat with force.”

To Mr Creswell’s astonishment, Sgt. Wise did exactly that, delivering an almighty swipe across Philips’ buttocks.

“Oww Jerry! Steady on old man,” he said, but he didn’t seem to be too distressed by the turn of events.

“Then repeat the stroke, rapidly, one stroke per second, until you’ve delivered all eight. Try to land the cane as close to the same spot each time as possible.”

He offered the cane to Mr Creswell, “Now, you try it.” With shaking hands, Mr Creswell took the cane and found his position.

“That’s right, look for your spot. Well, done. Now let fly, with maximum strength.”

The cane flew, but somehow along the way, Mr Creswell had lost his target and the cane thwacked down low on Philips’ buttocks, just where they met the thigh.

“Yowlll!” It was a genuine yelp and the guinea pig stomped his feet up and down. “Jesus H. Christ!” he gasped.

Sgt. Wise could see a potential problem. “The boy should remain in position and take it like a man, but if he doesn’t there are two of us to hold him steady for you.

“All right, that’s enough, let’s get the boy down here,” Sgt. Wise continued and to Phillips’ relief (or perhaps chagrin), the practical demonstration ended there.

Sgt. Wise could tell Mr Creswell was far from happy with this suggestion, but he didn’t want an argument. The boy was going to get eight strokes and the magistrate had ordered the father to deliver them. Why, the stupid old goat hadn’t just permitted himself to lay on the thrashing he didn’t know, but Sgt. Wise kept his criticism to himself.

“Call Albert down, Mr Creswell, let’s get this done.”

Albie, buoyed by the newspaper description of his pal’s thrashing, “The youth winced with pain, but made no sound as the cane lashed across his buttocks eight times”, was determined to take his thrashing stoically. He wouldn’t let himself down. He hoped this evening’s newspapers would report the same about him.

He entered the room and was disappointed that no newspaper reporters were present. Such is the world of news: the first boy’s thrashing gets extensive coverage, but when the news repeats itself, it is stale.

The room lapsed into silence, Mr Creswell suspected he was supposed to take the lead, but he didn’t know how.

So Sgt. Wise took control. “Albert, you know why you are here.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “The magistrate had ordered your father to give you eight strokes of the cane. Bend over that chair,” rather unnecessarily he pointed to the green chair.

Albie was on familiar territory, the headmaster had a rather similar chair and the boy knew the drill from his past painful experiences.

Almost as expertly as Philips had done previously, he presented his bottom for the lash of the cane. When he had spoken to James earlier his pal had confessed he was terrified at first, not knowing whether he was expected to take his whacking on the bare arse, but once it was clear he was to keep his trousers on all fear evaporated: the experience would be rather like a routine headmaster’s caning, and although he was certain his bum would be throbbing like mad at the end, he knew he could endure it.

Forearmed with the information, Albie also was convinced it would be agony but that he could take it. He waited patiently, head low bottom high, clutching the seat cushion: but nothing seemed to be happening. What was the delay?

Mr Creswell was seeing his son from a new angle: stretched across the back of Mr Creswell’s favourite armchair, his trousers stretched so tight across his buttocks the outline of his underpants was easily visible. His son was a brat, he realised, he was a convicted thief (and God knows what else his father didn’t know about); he had brought disgrace on his family (even now his neighbours were gathered outside in the street, impatient for the whipping to begin); Albie deserved what he had coming, a very sound thrashing and he was going to give it to him

“Oh, get on with it man!” Sgt. Wise had misunderstood the situation.

Yes, I shall, Mr Creswell thought to himself as he carefully took his aim, then raised the heavy cane high and brought it with an almighty swish and crack into the seat of Albie’s trousers.

The boy let out a yell every bit as piercing as the one Phillips had yelped earlier. His head rose from the seat cushion and his grasp on the cushion intensified. Already his knuckles were turning white.

There was a long pause, then a further swish followed by a loud firecracker explosion. Intense, blinding pain overwhelmed Albie for a few seconds, and then he became aware of a deep and biting ache across his bottom. The stroke had landed full across both cheeks, high across the top of the bum. The stinging was amazing, but it faded quickly.

Outside the satisfied neighbours could hear the unmistakable sound of the cane in action.

Stroke three: Mr Creswell was getting his aim now. This landed almost exactly on top of stroke number one: Albie had never felt pain like it and immediately he cried out and stamped his feet in a dance, as he crushed the cushion between his fists.  Sgt. Wise could not suppress a laugh: just what the brat deserved.

Stroke four slashed down, creating the sorest, reddest line yet: Albie’s bum was scorching like a flamethrower.

Albie was in too much agony to think about it, but if he could he would be pleased there were no newspaper reporters present: he was not taking his beating like James, “making no sound”.

He let out the most unmanly squeal as the next stroke cut into his cheeks.

Now there was no pretence at stoicism as each loud crack of the cane was met by a howl of anguish as Albie gave his vocal cords free rein. He could feel big red weals forming across his twin cheeks and he hollered out as each stroke landed. The caning was worse than anything he had experienced at his school.

He gulped, holding onto the chair, knuckles whitening. And waited… waited…for the sixth… waited… waited… for the seventh, unbearable, as if it had cut straight through him… waited…. waited… and then the final blow and the final crescendo of pain.

His father had sliced the cane down hard again and again until the full sentence of eight strokes had been delivered. The painful payload left Albie slumped exhausted over the chair, tears and snot flowed down his face.

Mr Creswell breathing was hard with the exhilaration he felt in thrashing his youngest son. He had so much power over the boy and he had exerted it. Albie would never forget this day.

“Stand up boy!” It was Sgt. Wise taking control again.

Clearly in agony Albie lifted himself off the chair and unsteadily stood. For a moment he had to hold on to the chair to stop from stumbling. His arse was on fire and he suspected there was blood beneath his pants. The throbbing in his buttocks was intense, unlike anything the headmaster had inflicted on him.

Albie’s tears of pain and humiliation were flowing uncontrollably as he stood unable to look his punisher in the eye.

Now it was time for Mr Creswell to take charge. “Go to your room, stay there for the rest of the day.”

Albie did not need telling twice: in a heartbeat he was out of the room and running up the stairs two at a time to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Mr Creswell supposed that the doctor would discreetly follow Albie from the room to go examine his injuries, but he did not. The doctor’s job was only to ensure that the victim didn’t actually die under the lash and he was certain that however much in agony he was at the moment, Albie would live.

No more was said as Sgt. Wise and his colleagues left the house. Only as the car was pulling away did Mr Creswell wish he had asked the detective if he would leave the cane behind; he had a mind that he might find occasion to use it again before too long.

Upstairs, Albie couldn’t wait to peel his trousers off and inspect the damage. He was shocked to see his buttocks covered in angry weals, some turning purple and eight fresh red lines, each as thick as his index finger.

Exhausted, he laid face-down on his bed, letting the cool air caress his buttocks. He was too tired to think about whether the magistrate was right or wrong to order his thrashing; he didn’t have the energy to ponder what his friends and neighbours would think of his punishment.

But as he sank into the bed and felt the pain begin to recede, Albie found that he was acutely aware of one thing: he was certain that the punishment had worked. Yes, whatever it would mean, the caning had worked.

A few days later the Advertiser newspaper reported, “Two quiet and restrained youths appeared before the magistrate this morning with their hair well brushed and their ties as straight as the narrow path.

“After he had listened to Sgt. Wise’s report of the thrashing in chambers, the magistrate emerged to tell the youths, one of whom was accompanied by his mother and the other by both parents, that as far as he was concerned he was satisfied with the police officer’s report.

‘“It seems to me you have learned your lesson,” added the magistrate, to which both youths replied in unison: “Yes, sir!”

“The magistrate then dismissed the case against both boys.”

 

Other caning stories you might like

 The office manager

The vicar delivers

The dope smoker

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The military kid

Nicholas Pierce was out of control. He needed to be reined in. Someone would surely get killed if he wasn’t stopped.

Joan and Pete Willis looked out of their bedroom window to the suburban street below. Parked outside the house opposite was a brand new sports car with its nearside light caved in and a deep dent on the fender.

“I bet he was loaded,” Joan sighed.

“Or on drugs, maybe?” Nicholas asked it as a question, but he was pretty certain the nineteen-year-old was high most of the time.

“We have to do something,” Joan said, as she slipped into her robe and made her way downstairs to prepare breakfast.

“Yes, we do,” Pete mused silently, and his heart beat a little faster at the prospect.

Nicholas Pierce wasn’t a bad boy, not really. He had been a smart kid and a credit to his family. That was until the tragedy happened. His pop David had a heart attack. On a crowded train. He just keeled over. Bang. Dead before he hit the floor.

David was ex-military. Quite a hard case. His wife had passed years earlier and there was only he and Nicholas left. He doted on the boy. He loved him so much he wasn’t afraid to tan his ass. Good. Hard. Often. Youngsters needed discipline. Parents had to set them boundaries. That’s how they would grow to responsible adults.

He loved his son so much that he provided for him well. The body had scarcely been cremated before Nicholas found out just how much. One insurance policy paid off the mortgage, another provided a monthly income. The military paid a gratuity. The kid was made. If he invested wisely, he’d never have to work again.

“Breakfast’s ready!” Joan called her husband down to the kitchen.

Pete shuffled into the kitchen, deep in thought.

“It would never have happened if David were still alive.” He didn’t have to explain what he meant. The couple both liked David; they had known him for ten years, since they first moved into the street. They doted on Nicholas as he was growing up. And now this. It damn near broke their hearts.

In the ten months since David left us, Nicholas had gone from bad to worse. He quit college, bought an expensive sports car and partied his life away. Joan and Pete had a bird’s eye view of it all. A different girl every time.

“So, are you going to do something about it?” It sounded like an accusation to Pete. Was his wife saying Nicholas’s behavior was his fault?

Joan bustled with the coffee cups; rattling them down on the diner top. “You know what David would have done if he were still here,” she trailed off a little. She had liked the ex-military guy very much indeed.

“You think I should ….?” David had barely started the sentence before his wife butted in.

“You betcha. And do it today.”

Pete’s throat drained of saliva. He tried to sip his coffee but it was too hot. “I guess we should wait for him to sober up a little,” he croaked.

Three hours later, at a little after noon, Pete crossed the street. He paused in front of the car. The damage was worse than he had first thought. It had hit something at great force. He knelt down for a closer inspection. Thankfully, he could see no blood.

He didn’t look back at his own house, but he knew his wife Joan was spying on him. She would be hidden behind the drapes checking.

He pressed the doorbell and listened for signs of life. Nothing. He tried again. Still no movement inside the house. This could take some time. He pressed his thumb on the bell and left it there.

He waited. And waited.

At last, through the opaque glass of the door he could just make out a figure. Moments later the door inched open and two bleary blue eyes greeted him.

“Huh?” Nicholas blinked into the sunlight. “Huh?” He was incapable of coherent speech.

Pete pushed at the door, forcing the nineteen-year-old back into the house.

“What the …?” The teen only just stopped himself uttering a profanity. He still remembered some of his pop’s teachings.

It was Pete’s turn to be speechless. The boy was naked except for his underwear that was stained at the front. He hadn’t shaved for days and his face had a ghostly grey-white pallor as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

Nicholas ran his fingers thought his hair and scratched his head vigorously, like he was chasing lice from his scalp.

The room was a mess. Shirts, underwear and pants had been thrown all over. Half eaten take-outs littered the floor. Pete’s nostrils twitched at a musty smell. Had a mouse crawled under the couch and died?

“Hey!” Pete snapped his fingers in front of the boy’s nose. “Hey, can you hear me?” He struggled to keep his composure. He hadn’t known Nicholas was in such bad shape. It shamed him; what would his friend David say if he knew he had allowed his only son to get into this state.

“Hey! Look at me,” Pete tried again, but Nicholas only stopped scratching his head and dug his fingers into his arms.

Panicking, Pete grabbed the boy’s arm to see his veins. Jeez. Clean. No needle marks. For now.

It strengthened Pete’s resolve. “Right. You. Clear up this mess,” he waved his arms to take in the whole room. “Then take a shower, have a shave. Put on some clean clothes.”

The boy’s scratching continued.

“Are you listening to me!”

Nicholas’s grunted response could have said, “Yes,” or it could have said, “No,” but Pete refused to be deterred.

Pete’s eyes flared. “I’m coming back at four o’clock and you and me are going to have a little talk, young man.”

Nicholas stopped his scratching. “A little talk.” That’s what his pop used to say.   A little talk, but very little “talking” ever got done.

“Four o’clock. Be ready.”

On the dot of four, Pete was back at the house. More than three hours had passed, but you would never know it. Nicholas was still in his dirty underwear and the mess was untouched.

Pete knew exactly what David would do if he were here and Nicholas knew too. Pete owed it to David to take action. Darn, he owed it to Nicholas as well.

It was a short lecture. The word “irresponsible” was used more than once. Nicholas stood motionless. He even stopped scratching. He knew where this was going.

“Your dad would be ashamed to see the state you’ve gotten yourself into,” Pete said wearily.

Nicholas’s eyes flickered at the sound of his pop’s name. He glared at the sticky carpet beneath his feet.

“Right,” Pete’s impatience was showing. “Get cleaned up. Take a shower. Shave. Then get back here.”

Nicholas’s shoulders twitched but he showed no sign of moving.

“Do it now,” Pete growled.

If Pete expected resistance, he didn’t get it. The teen shuffled from foot to foot and then turned on his heels and left the room.

Pete could hear the water cascading in the shower. Good, at last he was getting a response from the boy. He paced the room anxiously. What would David had done if he were here, he wondered.

What would he have done? It was a pointless question. His great friend the military man wouldn’t have let it get to this. The paddle would have been flying at the first sign Nicholas was off the rails. No way would he let his son drink and smoke his life away.

Pete owed it to his friend. He had to take charge. He had to save Nicholas.

Ten minutes later, the boy re-entered the room. His hair was still damp and he held a grimy bath towel around his waist. Otherwise, he was completely naked.

The warm water from the shower seemed to have woken the boy up.

Pete’s heart raced. He was anxious to get on with this. “What would your father do if he saw the state you were in today?”

Nicholas’s pale face reddened.

“Well?” Pete’s anger flared. “Answer me!”

Nicholas knew very well what his pop would do, but he wasn’t about to tell.

“He’d take a paddle to your ass; that’s what he would do,” Pete answered his own question.

The teen’s eyes moistened, but he remained head bowed, blinking at the floor.

“Doh! I’ve had enough of this. Go fetch the paddle.” And then to forestall an argument, he added, “I know you have one.”

Without raising his head, Nicholas once more shuffled from the room, his right hand clinging tightly to the bath towel, to stop it slipping to his knees.

Moments later he returned and not looking Pete in the eye he handed over the wood. Pete weighed it in his hand. It was a magnificent specimen. Heavy dark polished oak. Two rows of holes had been drilled in it so it would fly through the air. A real professional had made this. It was so unlike the Board of Education Pete kept at his own home. This one would pack a punch like no other.

The boy’s eyes were dull; his thoughts were somewhere else.

“How would your dad spank you?”

“Huh?”

“How? Over the knee, the back of the couch? You grabbing your ankles?”

“Huh?” The teen shrugged his shoulders as if he couldn’t remember.

Pete rubbed at the smooth polished wood. He knew from his own experience as a loving father how this should be done.

“Drop that towel. Bend over the couch.” It was a simple order. At first the teen appeared not to hear. Then as if waking from a stupor he blinked fast, sucked in breath and turned.

Pete ran his hand over the beautifully-polished wood. His own heartbeat was racing. He watched on as Nicholas released his hold on the towel and carefully placed both hands on the back of the couch. He paused momentarily as if he were debating with himself whether to go through with this. Good sense must have prevailed because he lent forward to rest his stomach on the apex of the couch and stretch his arms out ahead of him.

His nose pressed hard into the dusty seat cushion. Without waiting for instruction, he spread his legs wide and straightened his knees. That was how pop made him do it.

Only now did Pete see how unnaturally thin the boy was; his ribs easily visible through his skin, his buttocks not much more than loosely-covered bone.

If this was to work, Pete knew without a doubt, he had to whip the boy into the middle of next week. The spanking might be an act of love, but “love taps” would not do. This must be a blistering the boy would never want repeated.

He stood to the boy’s left, stretched out his arm and placed the paddle gently so that it caressed both cheeks equally. He was rewarded with two quivering buttocks. Nicholas sucked in his breath; waiting. Waiting for the agony, he knew would be inflicted by his pop’s favorite paddle.

Pete tap, tap, tapped the wood. Then he brought it back by about a foot and using strong wrist action he crashed it down into the skin and bone that was Nicholas’s rear end. A dark pink rectangle immediately appeared. The teen gasped as air rushed through his throat and out his mouth making a long drawn-out hissing noise.

Number two fell an inch or so lower, followed without hesitation by number three. Already, the whole of Nicholas’s backside was colored deep pink.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Three more sank into what little meat there was and bounced off. Nicholas held tight to a dirty couch cushion and shut his teeth tightly. That hurt. Christ that hurt so much.

Three more whipped down. Pete liked to paddle at a steady pace. Three at a time. Then a moment for them to sink in. Then another three.

The deep pink quickly turned to red. Nicholas’s feet marched up and down; his knees buckled and involuntarily (because he knew he deserved this whipping) his feet kicked back at his punisher.

He was rewarded by three swats on the back of the thighs; probably the most sensitive part of a boy’s anatomy when he is offering himself for a spanking.

That did it. The yowl! he screamed spread around the room. Nicholas’s hips swayed from side to side and his feet marched up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The teen’s head bounced up and down as he head-butted the couch cushion. Sweat poured from his naked body, running in a rivulet down his spine. His face was almost as red as his ass.

Another three and he was screaming so loudly, Pete feared his wife Joan might hear from across the street.

Tears streamed down his face and snot ran from his nose. His body heaved as he tried desperately to draw air into his lungs.

The center of each cheek had dark purple bruises and blood was beginning to seep. After three more, they looked like raw hamburger meat.

“Arghh!” Nicholas tried, oh how he tried to take his spanking like a man. That was how his pop had taught him it had to be. But nothing, no paddling or switching he had ever endured from his pop had prepared him for this.

Splat! Splat! Splat! On and on it went.

“Ple…ase, no more!” It wasn’t pleading it was wailing. Nicholas was spent. He had nowhere else to go. The agony that started in the center of each cheek travelled up and down his legs and then east, west, north and south through his whole body. His heart beat so fast he was certain blood would soon rush out from his ears.

Then it was over. Pete stood back. Sweat poured down his back and his shirt and the waistband of his pants were soaked. His own breathing was heavy, but as he once again rubbed the palm of his hand across the smooth polished surface of his wood, it was getting under control.

He paused to observe the teen he had thrashed. Nicholas still lay head down, ass high over the couch, gasping for air like a fish out of water. His back and shoulders heaved as he sobbed and sobbed into the cushion.

He was mumbling something Pete couldn’t quite hear. It sounded like, “Sorry pop. I’m sorry.”

“You should get up now,” Pete put the paddle down on the dining table and prepared to leave. His job was done.

He reached for the door to let himself out of the house, turning as he closed it behind him. He just glimpsed a distraught and broken nineteen-year-old man, bent double as he tried to ease the agony in his flesh. Even the gentle touch of his fingertips was too much; he was toasted. He should be lucky if he could sit in any comfort for a week.

Pete slowly crossed the street. He saw his wife at the window. It was shortly after four in the afternoon, but he hoped she would permit him to down a stiff whisky.

Behind him in the house, Nicholas, still totally naked, scooped up an armful of discarded take-out cartons.

 

Other stories you might enjoy

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

That Connor boy!

The man across the hall

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 11. Tram lines

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

The Spanking Vicar, episode 10 is here

The tram pulled into the stop but Craig wasn’t paying attention. The sports pages of the newspaper held his attention. If he had been more alert, he might have gotten away.

The automatic doors opened and within seconds slid shut again. The electric motor engaged and they were on their way.

“Tickets and passes please. Please have your tickets and passes ready.”

That got the twenty-two-year-old’s attention. A ticket inspector. What the …? There had never been ticket inspectors before.

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” The uniformed officer made his way down the carriage. Within seconds he would be standing by Craig, arm outstretched, palm open waiting for the young man’s ticket.

A ticket he did not have.

If Craig ever bothered to read more than just the sports pages in the newspaper he would have known about the purge against fare dodgers. It was costing ordinary honest travellers hundreds of thousands a year. It had to be stopped. Everyone: politicians, the tram company and most of all ordinary punters agreed. A court fine. A criminal record. Your name in the paper for all the neighbours to see. A family disgraced. These were just some of the consequences for the fare dodger.

“Ticket please, sir.” Craig couldn’t recall the last time anyone had called him “sir.” They certainly did not at the office where he worked. His despised supervisor called him “Sonny”, and always with a sneer.

“Thank you, sir,” the ticket inspector was getting impatient. He had to go through two carriages before the tram reached its next stop. He didn’t have time to waste.

Craig said nothing. There was no need. His guilt was written all over his now very flushed face.

“Did you know?” the inspector started on a prepared speech. They had learned it at a training workshop. It was simple really. Ascertain if the passenger had a ticket. If not, don’t get into an argument; simply ask for their name and address (check some ID wherever possible). Write it down and inform said passenger they would be hearing from the courts in due course.

The inspector raised his pen and started on his spiel but stopped after a couple of sentences. “Don’t I know you?”

Craig’s already pink face turned a little claret.

“Yes, I do,” the inspector’s own face lit up. He thought so. Well, well, who would have thought it?

“You’re one of Reverend Crick’s boys.”

The stress he placed on the word “boys” sent a shudder through Craig. Who was this man? How did he know the Reverend? Did he know about Crick’s methods? Did everyone in the parish know?

The inspector tucked his pen in his notepad and chuckled to himself, “One of the Reverend’s boys.” Then without a further word, he passed on down the carriageway.

….

The telephone rang in the vicarage. Rev Crick cussed, but only gently. Why did the phone always ring when he was reaching a crucial stage in his baking?

Rubbing flour from his hands he strode into the hallway and picked up the phone. It was Joey Slaughter, the ticket inspector. Craig had been puzzled when the ticket collector had let him off fare dodging. What, no fine?  But he should have known better.

As soon as his shift was over, Joey called the vicar. He knew Craig was one of the Reverend’s “boys” and he was very aware of the Reverend’s view (and practice) on discipline. He knew when he told Crick about Craig’s criminal activity he would certainly beat the boy raw and that would be a greater deterrent to further fare dodging than a miserly fine.

Three hours later, Rev Crick burst unannounced into Craig’s bedroom. It was a close call; the boy had just finished buttoning up. That girl with the big knockers who worked at the café near his work. It did it for him every time.

Craig eyed the cane in the vicar’s hand with apprehension. He guessed at once. That ticket inspector.

Rev Crick loved to sermonise; he was a vicar after all. “Fare dodging! What were you thinking of? It’s theft, you know it is.”

“Oh, perleaze! The tram company is asking for it. They have no ticket offices. You get your ticket from an automatic machine. Then you get on the tram. It’s some kind of honesty policy, but who in their right mind paid for something when they didn’t have to? Only mugs, that’s who: I’ve never once paid my tram fare.” Craig thought all these things, but did not say one word out loud. He knew what the consequences would be. There was no need to antagonise the vicar further.

Rev Crick flexed the straight cane between his hands. It was a little longer and thicker than any in the vicar’s large collection of crook-handled school canes.

Craig had stopped listening to the sermon some time ago. So, it was to be a caning. Fair enough. It was probably worth it. He had saved a small fortune in the short time he had been in Tylesbury; six-of-the-best would be a small price to pay. What the heck, he could take it.

Swipe! The vicar swished the cane through empty air, then held the rod at each end and flexed it into an arc. Yes, he thought, this would leave the necessary impression on the thief.

Swipe! Rev Crick was almost ready to go. “I want you to take off your jeans. You can put them there on the chair.”

Craig nonchalance was evident as for the second time that afternoon he unbuttoned his jeans. Unlike the last time, his cock was soft. Casually, he let the jeans fall and rest in a puddle at his feet. He stood still awaiting further instruction.

“Right off. Step out of them. Put them over here,” the reverend pointed his cane towards a wooden straight-backed chair. Silently, the young man pulled first the right leg and then the left over his feet and while balancing precariously he took the jeans off and deposited them on the chair.

Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his arse crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.

“Pants off too. Right off.”

Craig hesitated. A bare-arsed caning.

“Come on lad, I haven’t got all day,” the vicar’s impatience was showing. He had bread baking in the oven downstairs and he did not want it to spoil.

Craig tucked his thumbs into his pants at the hips and with the merest flick of the wrist he sent the amber-coloured briefs south.

“Now,” the vicar swished his rod menacingly, “Lay face down on the bed.”

The startled look on the boy’s face betrayed his thoughts. For the first time he visualised the awesome swing the vicar could make with his cane as it whipped down into his naked buttocks.

“Face down. Please stretch your arms ahead of you and grasp hold of the metal bedframe,” the vicar intoned. In his own mind he often saw himself as his tenants’ loving-father, compelled by duty to spank the bottoms of his errant sons. But, today he was a prison guard or a borstal warder preparing to deliver an exemplary judicial flogging to this odious thief.

Craig eased himself onto the narrow single bed, stretched his arms forward and buried his face in a pillow. To his astonishment, within seconds the vicar had grabbed his right wrist and tied it to the bedstead. Then he did the same with the left.

Crick studied the cane in his hand as if he had never seen it before. It was three-feet long and maybe three-eighths of an inch thick. This cane rarely saw action, it was reserved by the vicar for the most serious of offences, for the times an exemplary thrashing was required. He kept the Malacca rod secreted in the garden shed where it was pickled in a solution of salt water and vinegar. This made it very supple and ensured it stung like hell.

He had carefully rounded off the tips; experience had taught him that when he hit hard, as he always did, the tip would often whip round and bite into the side of the buttocks, and sharp edges cut the flesh badly.

The vicar stared impassively at the half naked body in front of him. He grabbed hold of Craig’s shirt and pulled it up his back, completely exposing two quivering buttocks.

Then, he aimed his cane at an imaginary spot about six inches below the surface of the cheeks, raised it high and brought it crashing down. The rod held contact at maximum pressure with the skin and immediately an ugly weal rose across the very centre of both globes.

Craig exhaled a gasp and bit deep into the pillow, stifling the yell he desperately wanted to make. His legs kicked out in agony as he fought in vain to free his wrists from the bedpost. There was no escape, he was at the complete mercy of Rev Crick; not that he intended to show any.

Methodically, Rev Crick set about tearing Craig’s arse apart. Once again he lifted the cane into the air over his right shoulder, paused for a moment, and then brought it swiftly and forcefully downwards towards the awaiting bottom in front of him.

As the vicar delivered the stroke across the same sensitive area Craig’s cries and squirms of anguish were only matched by the determination of Crick. His eyes never left the boy’s backside.

With intense concentration Rev Crick swung the Malacca and hit his target with increasing venom and accuracy. The pain of each lash seared through Craig’s body, like electric shocks. The worst were the low cuts, down at the bottom of his cheeks, where the tip of the cane whipped around and cut into the soft part in the crease.

By the fifth lash Craig was squealing to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as his restraints would allow.

Craig begged to be let off more cuts; he vowed to always pay his tram fare.

But it was not to be and the final lash cut deep into the pert buttocks. Then it was over. Rev Crick had whipped strokes all over his backside, from the top of the crack right down to the join with the legs. They were savage and seared a young behind that was unlikely to forget the experience.

“That is that,” the vicar had hardly broken sweat. Quickly, he untied the wailing boy and without a further word, he exited back to his kitchen and his baking bread.

Craig lay gasping, hardly able to catch his breath; the agony in his naked buttocks had quickly spread to nerve ends across his whole body. His head throbbed almost as intensely as his buttocks.

Soon the agony lessened a little and he eased himself off the bed, careful not to press his buttocks into the hard mattress. The pillow was soaked with his saliva.

He stumbled across to the mirror. He had five long open cuts across the centre of both buttocks. The weals stood out clearly and he could see each stripe easily. The vicar’s aim had been superb; each lash had landed precisely where intended. The boy should be grateful he had been restrained and unable to move.

The next day, both buttocks would be very swollen like purple footballs. The weals turned to pitch-black scabbing ‘tram-lines’, an ironic reminder to the thief to always pay his tram fare in future.

The following Saturday, with his arse now almost clear of bruising, Craig stood patiently at the tram stop, a pile of coins in his hand. As the tram approached silently, he looked to the left and to the right. Good, the coast was clear. He put the change back in his pocket and boarded.

 

The Spanking Vicar, episode 12 is here

 

Other stories you might like

The cheating student

The pub manager

Home late

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The headmaster’s guests

The headmaster and his two guests sat drinking tea in his study. The meeting looked to be a success. They had toured the school and they both seemed very impressed. Perhaps a deal was imminent.

There was a tap on the door. Blast, the headmaster silently cursed. He had forgotten all about Thompson.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he nodded towards the door of his study. “Something I must attend to.” Then more loudly he called, “Come!”

The door inched open slowly and stopped.

“Well come in boy! Don’t keep me waiting!”

Then a face popped round the door. It was a shiny face, a face that liked to smile a lot. But, not that afternoon. There was nothing to smile about – not when the face’s owner had been summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Come in boy,” the headmaster had now all but forgotten his important visitors.

A miserable sixth-form boy shuffled into the study and then stopped still: puzzled. He had been in this room many times before and he knew entirely what his fate this afternoon would be. But never before did he have an audience.

“Well Thompson,” the headmaster intoned, affecting a grave expression. Like all headmasters he could be a bit of a ham actor when the occasion demanded it. “You know why you have been sent for.” It was a statement as much as a question.

“Yes, Sir,” the eighteen-year-old prefect eyed the visitors apprehensively, still unsure what part they were to play in the little drama that was about to unfold.

“Good. Then don’t let us waste any more time. Go through into Mrs Tomkinson’s office, she has left for the day. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

The teenager blinked, almost in gratitude. So it wasn’t going to be a public thrashing after all.

The two visitors look on in awe as the headmaster strolled to a cupboard, opened it and extracted a thick crook-handled cane. Without a further word he exited into the secretary’s office, accidentally leaving the door open a little.

Both men remained silent, at first not daring to look each other in the eye. Joshua Durnford fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs. His companion Winker Wilson watched Durnford’s eyes shine as almost inaudible voices drifted in from the adjacent room. Then there was the sound of a cane being swished through the air a few times before it landed with a resounding crack. Four times the room was filled with the sound of the swish and crack of the cane. Twack number four was met with a loud yowl!

Sweat moistened Durnford’s brow when he heard the authoritative voice of the headmaster say, “Bend over. If you stand up again you will receive extra strokes, do you understand?” There followed a moment of silence and then two more cracks.

Still the two men stayed quiet, unwilling to acknowledge to one another what was taking place next door. Sweat trickled down Durnford’s neck and his hand shook a little as he raised the teacup to his lips.

The door opened and Dr Burnham returned, replaced the cane in the cupboard and sat down and as if nothing had happened. “Apologies gentlemen, now where were we?”

An hour or so later all three men sat in the VIP lounge of the rugby club sipping their third whiskies. Durnford seemed only to have one thing on his mind.

“Headmaster, this is 1968 I didn’t think they still used corporal punishment.”

The headmaster had not expected this to be their topic of conversation, but answered nonetheless. “It has indeed fallen into disuse in some schools, particularly, I believe, the state schools, but in high-class private schools such as ours, it is an important feature. We find the parents appreciate their sons are in a disciplined environment. It is why they send them to us and why they are willing to pay high fees.”

The headmaster was keen to impress Durnford. He was trying to sell him Draffield Independent Grammar School, of which he owned ninety percent of the shares. He knew Durnford from the rugby club as a very successful and wealthy entrepreneur. When Durnford heard the school was for sale, he had said he might buy it. A traditional (almost old-fashioned) school fitted in with his interests, he had said.

The headmaster knew the school was a robust business for now, but the socialist government had many cabinet ministers who did not support private education, so the future was less certain. If he could sell now he could retire very comfortably indeed.

“Do you use corporal punishment much, headmaster?” Dr Burnham was nothing if not perceptive and he noticed that Durnford appeared to have an unusual interest in the subject.

“No more than is necessary. I find once the boys understand the consequences of breaking the rules, they do not do so.”

Durnford leaned forward in his chair, spilling whisky from his glass. “But, headmaster, do you believe caning actually works?”

Dr Burnham noticed Durnford had referred to him as “headmaster” several times, even though they had been on first name terms for years. It was then the headmaster had the germ of an idea.

“It depends how you do it. If you do not cane a boy properly then you will have failed, he will learn nothing from it. However, if you cane him hard he will learn everything that you wish to teach him. The intense agony of the caning is short lived. I believe it to be a simple choice, a temporary sore and very bruised and painful bottom, or a lifetime of failure.”

The headmaster lapsed into silence and studied his companion who appeared to be debating with himself what to say next. So, the headmaster gave him the lead. “What do you think Thomas?”

Durnford blushed, a little, but this time it was not the effect of the whisky. “I was never caned at my school. I never went to a posh school like yours,” he trailed off regretfully, “just an ordinary Board school.”

Wilson’s ears pricked up. He had been Durnford’s business partner for many years but he never knew that. Wilson had assumed Durnford was a public school man like himself. What an oik, he hadn’t been to public school at all, just some simple council school.

He wanted to know more. “So tell me Thomas, were you thrashed at school?”

Durnford blushed and took a gulp of whisky as if distressed by the question, “No, we didn’t have the cane, nor the slipper. Nothing like that really,” he sounded disappointed and fell into an embarrassed silence.

“More drinks gentlemen” Durnford was relieved that the waiter had appeared from nowhere and they ordered another round of doubles.

“Of course,” Wilson said, enjoying his social superiority, “I was head boy at my public school, St Tom’s, and as such was allowed to cane the younger boys. This was long time ago of course. In the thirties.”

Durnford felt a surge of excitement and the whisky loosened his tongue and the words just poured out. “How did you cane them? How many strokes did you give? Was it on the trousers? I hear in some schools it was done on the bare?”

Dr Burnham’s eyebrows knotted and he smiled to himself. Now, he had the measure of this man.

Durnford, embarrassed by his outburst, swigged on his whisky; the men had not eaten and he realised he was more than a little drunk.

Winker Wilson had himself been thrashed many times at his school. All the boys had been; often by the senior boys who were prefects. Then, as they progressed up to the sixth-form and became prefects themselves, they had in turn beaten the younger boys. Such were the traditions of England’s finest – and not so finest – public schools.

Winker had loved the power that came with being head boy and he told his tale to his two drunken companions with some relish.

“At school there were several places where the chaps would go for a smoke after classes and on this day the prefects launched a co-ordinated attack. We raided all the smoking holes. We must have caught seven or eight boys.

“The worst of it was that one of the illicit smokers was a chap from the upper sixth. Charter, I think his name was. He wasn’t a prefect and so was subject to the same rules as everyone else.”

Durnford’s eyes shone in anticipation at the next part of the story and he shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs in the vain hope that his companions would not notice his excitement.

Wilson relished increasing his embarrassment.

“So, I sent him to my wait outside my study. Poor chap, he was so embarrassed. He must have been eighteen years old, nineteen maybe, and he knew what was coming and there was nothing he could do about it,” Wilson almost giggled at the memory.

“I arrived and instructed him to enter. ‘Face the wall Charter’. I ordered as if he were one of the junior boys. He had no option but to comply. I had complete authority over him.”

He swigged more whisky, studying Durnford’s posture as he continued his story. “I began my preparations. The area in front of my desk was already clear of any obstruction so I placed a small chair about three feet away and sideways on to the front edge of my desk. I fetched a suitable cane from my small collection of five such implements in the corner cupboard and placed it on my desk.

“Charter had of course been caned previously – we all had – but it still came as a great shock when I ordered him to lower his trousers down to his ankles for six strokes across the underpants.”

Durnford was in great discomfort and would have been wise to adjourn to the Gentlemen’s lavatory to deal with his current predicament, but he was anxious to hear the rest of the story.

Wilson continued, “It is best to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, don’t you think so headmaster?”

Dr Burnham was determined not to be drawn into this discussion and remained silent.

Wilson had the floor to himself. I tapped the chair with my thick cane. ‘Bend right over the back of the chair, and put your forehead firmly down on the seat,’ I commanded. Of course, he had no choice and immediately complied. Boys did in those days. They took their canings without fuss. Is it much the same today, headmaster?’

The headmaster grunted, his response could have been Yes, or it could have been No, as far as Wilson could tell.

Wilson was warming to this theme, “I waited only a few seconds between strokes, delivering six in a speeded up rhythm, which allowed very little time for the sixth-former to fully absorb the impact of the previous stroke before the next one landed. He did not take it very well, if I remember correctly. He was jumping up and down before the third cut hit home. I don’t suppose his underpants were much use to him.

“But it was over in a matter of seconds. When he stood he gave me such a look of contempt I was tempted to have him take his underpants down and give him another six on the bare. I restrained myself admirably, but did make a note to find an excuse to thrash him once again the very next opportunity that presented itself.

“He might have had contempt for me, but I had won. He was rubbing his stinging bottom like mad when he left my study that day.”

There was silence as all three swigged from their glasses. “Shall we go eat gentlemen?” Dr Burnham was keen to steer the conversation back to the sale of the school.

They tucked into steak and kidney pudding and potatoes, but the stodgy food did nothing to soak up the alcohol. Now, came the headmaster’s opportunity.

Speaking directly at Durnford he said in his experience many adult men missed the certainty of their school days. They knew what the rules were and what the penalty would be if they broke them: a beating.

“It was penitence,” he said. “The crime as it were had been committed, the bad deed had been discovered and six-of-the-best was the punishment. In that way they atoned for their crime and they moved on with a clean slate. Until the next time, of course.”

Dr Burnham was ready to take an enormous gamble. On it could rest the future of his school, and certainly the size of his pension.

“Some former boys of the school still see me as their headmaster, an authority figure if you will. They find it a comfort to know that when they need to atone for some misbehaviour in their everyday life, their work for example, I can be at hand to help them with their penance.”

“Yes,” Durnford slurred, “I think I know exactly what you mean.” He stopped, his eyes glazed, it was as if he had lost his trail of thought. “You see, I have this thing, this problem,” he stopped in embarrassment.

“Thomas,” the headmaster leaned forward. “You have my number; telephone me if you need my assistance.” He did not need to wink, even in his drunken state Durnford knew what he meant. “I am usually in my study between four and five o’clock each evening. Please telephone me if you wish to.”

Durnford’s eyes glistened and the headmaster was certain he would soon receive the call.

The headmaster was a man of the world and he knew what Durnford wanted. Dr Burnham did not really cane adults, he was not a fetishist, but he was convinced Durnford was one. He had deliberately lied to Durnford but if delivering six-of-the-best would convince him to buy the school then so be it.

Next day, the call came and they made an appointment for five o’clock that afternoon, by which time the secretary would have left for home.

Durnford was so excited at the prospect at his visit to the headmaster’s study he succeeded in arriving too early for his appointment. Mrs Tomkinson was still in her office, but hurriedly clearing up for the day, seemingly anxious to be away.

“Oh, Mr Durnford,” she greeted him formally. “The headmaster has somebody with him, but please wait he won’t be a moment.” And with that she darted from the room.

Somebody with him: did that mean what he thought it did? He stood close to the door that separated him from the study, hoping that it did mean just that. He was not disappointed. Through the door he heard the tell-tale sounds of cane swishing through the air, then a series of cracks, followed by gasps and ouches.

He retreated from the study door just as it opened and out came a young man he recognised. It was Johnstone, a young rugby player from the club where he and the headmaster were members. He knew Johnstone because he had been sent off during a match the previous Saturday for punching an opponent.

Was Johnstone a pupil at the school, he wondered. He rather thought he was a bit too old for that and did not expect to see him here. It was all the more surprising because the burly lad had tears streaming down his face and was rubbing his rugby-shorts-clad buttocks in obvious agony as he peered over his shoulder to try and inspect the damage. He had not seen Durnford in the room and drew up the hem of his shorts, revealing a tightly-packed cluster of livid weals along the under-side of his bottom. He had clearly been beaten very severely.

Suddenly, he realised the presence of another man in the room. “Ohhh, Christ!” he wailed, and with his face now as red as his buttocks, he fled from the office.

Durnford paced the secretary’s room, staring at the clock on the wall, waiting and waiting for the minute hand to crawl to twelve. On the dot of five o’clock he tapped on the study door.

The study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece stood two large silver trophies and above it a framed portrait of the Queen. In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared but for three canes of varying lengths and thicknesses and the headmaster’s mortar-board cap. Two armchairs of well-worn leather were to the left of the desk and to the right French windows looked out onto the playing fields. Framed in the windows was the tall figure of the headmaster standing erect with an air of imperious authority.

He was tall and solid, as befitted a former county rugby player. He wore a dark grey suit with a tattered, academic gown over his shoulders.

“Stand there boy,” the headmaster pointed to a spot in front of his desk. “Tell me why you are here?”

As arranged previously Durnford listed the many misdeeds that had brought him before the headmaster. Dr Burnham listened patiently, but was anxious to get this over with.

“What punishment do you think you deserve?”

“Twelve strokes, trousers down, thank you headmaster,” Durnford replied too eagerly.

The headmaster should have expected such a reply, but did not. A proper twelve strokes on the pants would be unendurable by even the most hardened receiver of the cane.

“No, this is your first offence and I intend to be lenient with you,” he said.

The look of sheer disappointment on Durnford’s face unnerved the headmaster.

“But,” he hurried to regain the situation, “If you are sent to me again, it most certainly will be twelve cuts with your trousers at your ankles.”

“Thank you headmaster.”

“Take off your jacket, boy, and put it over the back of that chair!”

Durnford was surprised at his own calmness. With no difficulty he undid the buttons of his suit jacket, slipped it from his shoulders and folded it neatly on the seat of a straight-backed chair.

“Good, now pull that chair over here,” the headmaster ordered pointing to a medium-sized leather armchair.

Durnford submissively obeyed his master and moved one of the ancient worn chairs until the head was happy with its position.

“Good. I am now going to beat you and it will be six of the very best,” and so saying he walked to his desk and inspected his canes. He selected one and looked at it carefully and seemed to realise something about it. He replaced it on the desk and exchanged it for another one. The new one was slightly longer, a bit thicker and completely smooth with the traditional crooked handle of the school cane.

While he did this Durnford waited, the tension of excitement mixed with anxiety swelling inside of him.

Satisfied with his selection, Dr Burnham took a deep breath, as if gearing himself up to perform an unpleasant task.

“Stand there boy. Face me.” He pointed to a spot a foot or two from the back of the armchair.

Durnford stood; his head bowed a little, hands clasped behind his back.

“You are about to receive six strokes of the cane, and I promise you, young man, that I am really going to cane you as hard as you deserve to be caned.”

Then he spoke the words Durnford had dreamed off all his life, “Now, bend over that chair.”

His heart raced and the blood rushed at speed through his arteries so quickly that he feared it would flood out of his body through his ears. Breaths came in short gasps and suddenly his back was drenched in sweat.

The time had come; he had been dreaming of this moment, it seemed, for the whole of his life. He mustn’t spoil the event by collapsing in a heap on the carpet.

He gulped in two lungs-full of air to steady his nerves, then by rubbing his hands together he composed himself. In a continuous movement he leaned over the chair thrusting his bottom firmly upwards for what would be for him the thrashing of a lifetime.

“Further!” There was no reason for the middle-aged man to move; instinctively he had presented his buttocks perfectly to receive the cane, but the headmaster acknowledged Durnford wanted to experience the full drama of a headmaster’s caning.

By the time the good doctor was satisfied his companion’s firm bottom was sticking out ideally, presenting the maximum surface for the application of the cane. The chair had accommodated so many boys in a similar posture over the years and Durnford fitted perfectly into the folds of the chair back.

The first thing Durnford realised was that he could not see himself draped over the chair awaiting his first-ever punishment. Nor could he see the headmaster swishing his cane and cracking it into his own upturned buttocks. That was how he pictured this event in his fantasies. Instead, all he could see was the seat cushion that his face was pressed into.

He did however know that his bottom was taut and in the air. He felt the headmaster grab the tail of his shirt and remove it from the waistband of his trousers and push it up an inch or two so that his lower back was bare.  He was truly helpless, just like a vulnerable sixth-form schoolboy in position submissively waiting for a caning. He was trapped and he suddenly became very conscious of the tightness of his trousers around his buttocks.

He clutched the seat cushion awaiting his punishment. He could not help it: his vulnerable buttocks quivered in anticipation.

Dr Burnham was an experienced and very expert caner. He knew how to inflict the right severity of punishment to fit an individual boy’s personality and the crime he had committed, but he was unsure about Durnford. He was a mature adult and could probably endure much more pain that the average schoolboy, but he was also a novice and even a mild caning would for him be “the thrashing of a lifetime.”

He was still unsure how hard to lay it on as he flexed the cane between his hands and contemplated the pair of buttocks presented to him. Durnford might be a middle-aged gentleman but he was still very fit. That was when he decided: Oh damn it! I’ll give it to him in the same way I gave it to Johnstone.

The headmaster took up his position and for the first time in his life Durnford felt a cane tapping his buttock cheeks, He tensed as the doctor raised the cane then struck it hard across the waiting target. Durnford heard the sickening swish then the fire exploded across his bum. He groaned as the stinging pain took control of him.

The head took aim a second time and swung the cane to land crisply on the crown of the buttocks opening up a fresh line of stinging pain, which made Durnford’s fists uncurl and grasp at the coarse fabric of the chair’s seat cushion.

Each stroke was laid on with the same dreadful force. By the third Durnford was unaware of anything except the screaming agony in his bottom. He yelped as the cane made contact but stayed in position, as slowly but methodically the headmaster lashed the senior cane a further three times across the tender buttocks, low down in a tight band just where he would have to sit down. All six strokes were a very tight band across the very base of his bottom.

Durnford did not take it well. The caning came with alarming accuracy and devastating pain. His buttocks clenched and unclenched, his legs shook, his feet beat a tattoo on the floor and a strangulated cry echoed around the room. Patiently, after each stroke Dr Burnham waited for him to subside once more, measured the cane across the lower part of the cheeks and struck again with penetrating force.

It was over in a matter of seconds. In the distance Durnford heard the headmaster telling him to stand up and place his hands on his head. Almost unbelieving, Durnford staggered into an upright position, he wanted to clasp his throbbing buttocks, but with tears in his eyes, and hopping about from foot to foot, he obeyed the headmaster’s instructions, placed his hands on his head and moved to stand facing the wall.

The headmaster stared at the back of the ‘boy,’ unsure how this was supposed to end. Durnford had calmed a little, but he still fidgeted in some discomfort. The headmaster avoided looking for a tell-tale bulge.

In time, he decided to dismiss Durnford in the time-honoured fashion of headmaster and punished schoolboy.

“Turn around.” Durnford did so. “Keep your hands on your head. Look at me when I am speaking to you.” The headmaster wobbled the flexible cane he had used for the thrashing close to Durnford’s face. “Remember next time it will be double the strokes and trousers down. Is that clear, boy?”

“Yes, Sir, headmaster Sir. Thank you headmaster,” the endorphins had kicked in and Durnford was on a high.

“If that is understood then please leave my study.”

Durnford did not need telling twice. The second he was through the door, his hands clasped his buttocks and he rubbed away furiously.

The headmaster replaced the chair to its rightful position and then gathered up the canes and put them in the cupboard. Then he sat down in the same chair that minutes before had held Durnford’s prostrate body, wishing a bottle of whisky was close at hand.

He stared through the french windows into the playing fields beyond where senior boys were engaged in rugby practice. How many more times would he have to do this before Durnsford agreed to buy, he pondered silently.

 

More stories you might like

Housemaster’s double caning

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The night porter

Arthur wasn’t fit enough to scale the high wall; he knew that, and the beer he had drunk that night wasn’t making it any easier.

But, he had no choice. He was late back to College and had missed “gating”: the formal locking-up of the university for the night.

He wasn’t the only student in the history of Brakestone who had climbed the wall to escape a penalty, but it was Arthur’s first time. Never in the three years he had been up at the university did he need to.

Puffing profusely he reached the top of the wall, waited a few seconds and then fell the other side, landing in prickles.

“Blast!” he exclaimed, rather too loudly, considering his illegal entry was intended as a clandestine manoeuvre. He had scratched his arm rather badly and it hurt like crazy. But, it wasn’t the only pain he would feel that night before he was able, in agony, to crawl into bed.

Arthur’s amateurish attempt to break in to the College had alerted Laine, the night porter. Laine always expected undergraduates to try to break the curfew and he saw it as his solemn duty to catch them. For hours after lock-up at 11pm, Laine would prowl the perimeter of the college grounds. The wall was not very long and there were only two strategic points over which a young man could climb. Like the Canadian Mounties, Laine always got his man.

Tonight was no exception. Before Arthur could disentangle himself from the brambles, Laine shone a torch in his face. The night porter did not recognise the young man; he was not one of his regulars. He looked forward to making his acquaintance in the porter’s lodge.

Laine offered Arthur his hand. “Come on matey, get on your feet.”

Arthur immediately saw by Laine’s uniform that he was a college servant. He was outraged. “Matey! How dare you! You call me Sir!”

Laine smiled inwardly, “Alright if that’s the way you want it.”

Aloud he said, “Would Sir like to accompany me to the porter’s lodge?”

Arthur caught the sarcasm in his voice. “No I would not, I’m going to bed.” Little did Arthur realise it, but he was digging himself a hole and it was getting deeper and deeper each time he spoke.

“I’m afraid you must come with me, Sir. If I am very much mistaken you are an undergraduate of this college and you have made a forced entry into the grounds because you missed curfew. In such cases, there is a procedure that we must follow. Please, come with me.”

“Piss off, I’m going to bed.”

Laine was not shocked. He had met many arrogant students in the twenty or so years he had been night porter and he knew by the time he finished with them they soon changed their tune. He would knock the arrogance out of this one too, he thought. Indeed, he relished the prospect.

Arthur shook himself free of Laine and made to leave. He was astonished when the night porter smacked him across the face, grabbed him by the hair and frogmarched him to the lodge.

The lodge was really two rooms, outside was a reception area where visitors would report and students would receive their personal mail. Behind, was quite a large room used by the porters as an office-cum-sitting room.

“Sit down there, Sir, and please be quiet,” Laine had not lost his sarcastic tone.

Arthur was not finished yet. “You cannot hold me here against my will. It is false imprisonment.” He always had been pompous, even as a small boy. The servants at his father’s country estate despised him for it. They would have very much enjoyed seeing how the college night porter dealt with the self-important prick.

“Sir, it is my duty to take details of your name and your room number. In the morning I shall report you to the College Master and you will be disciplined with a fine and gating. I shall also report that you used an obscene word towards me and you will almost certainly be suspended from the college.”

Arthur’s temper subsided a little. The ghastly man was right. Why had he sworn at the fellow? He was in big trouble now. He couldn’t possibly be sent down for the rest of the term. It would disgrace his family and father would certainly flog him with his stout Malacca cane, twenty-two years old or not. And, it would be severe, bare-bottomed certainly, and no less than a dozen hard stokes; more possibly.

“I’m most terribly sorry, I really should not have sworn at you,” Arthur hoped he could use what he believed to be his upper-class charm on the fellow. After all, these working chaps were decent people, weren’t they?

“No you shouldn’t, Sir,” was Laine’s very curt reply.

This wasn’t going to work, Arthur realised, and he wished he had money in his pocket to offer the man a bribe.

The two men lapsed into silence, while Laine went to fetch an official College pad, so he could take details. He flamboyantly brandished the pad and his ballpoint pen, making sure Arthur knew precisely how much trouble he was in. “Now Sir can I have the details?”

Desperately, Arthur made one more try. “Now come on Sir is this really necessary?” he resented that he had been forced into calling a servant “Sir”, but he absolutely, definitely, did not want his behaviour this evening to reach his father’s ears.

“How do you mean, Sir?” Laine did have an alternative option, but he was going to make sure the arrogant tow-rag begged for it.

“I don’t know, perhaps, you would be kind enough to give me a second chance?”

“Let you off, Sir? Why should I do that, Sir?”

“Well, see,” Arthur did not have a ready response but managed to splutter, “Eh, it is my first offence.”

That was true, Laine said he could concede that, but Arthur could not be allowed to get away scot-free and what about the obscenity?

Arthur felt he had lost: the man was unreasonable, but that’s the working class for you, they envy their social betters and at the first chance that comes along they turn on them.

He was resigning himself to his fate. Then Laine threw him the lifeline.

“At your school Sir, what happened to boys who missed lock-up?”

Arthur was confused, “My school?”

“Yes Sir, at school.”

Laine could remember very clearly indeed. It had only happened to him once, but he would remember the consequences for the rest of his life. He and his three sixth-form schoolchums were sent to the housemaster. They were required to take down trousers and underpants and each in turn was instructed to bend across the housemaster’s large desk. He took their backsides off with six stingers with an ashplant cane. He laid it on extra hard: they were sixth-formers, eighteen years old for Heaven’s sake, they should be setting the younger boys an example. Arthur had never experienced so much agony before. He didn’t think it was even possible for one human being to inflict so much pain on another.

All the boys had six seeping welts on their bottoms when they hobbled out of the study. He remembered he could hardly walk to the dormitory where the four of them bathed one another’s scorched buttocks in cold water. There was a lot of bravado at the time, there always was with boys who had been thrashed, but Arthur was broken by the beating. It took a week for the welts to clear and several more days for the bruising to go. The pain and the humiliation were intense: he vowed he would never break the rules again. And, until tonight, he had managed to keep his promise.

Tonight had been a misadventure. He was at the Goat’s Head pub, which was not one of his usual haunts. He’d never been there before: it had a “reputation” and a gentleman would not want to be tainted by its bad character. There had been this boy, a pretty young thing with piercing blue eyes and hair in ringlets. Arthur felt such happiness when they held each other’s hands, which increased ten-fold when in the alleyway they hugged. That bliss was shattered when the boy demanded ten shillings for a hand job or a pound for oral.

Arthur fled and didn’t stop until he reached the Coach and Horses, where he drank too much gin before returning to College, a long time after curfew.

Arthur told Laine about the housemaster’s canings, but did not confess that he had once been the victim of a brutal beating and the terror he felt of it being repeated.

“So would you like me to beat you Sir?”

Arthur genuinely had missed the point and said so.

Laine explained, “Are you asking that I beat you Sir for your breaking of the rules and using obscene language?”

Arthur was beginning to cotton on. “The cane?”

“No Sir, not the cane. I use something else,” so saying he opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a large heavy brush. Arthur didn’t recognise what it was, but could see the bristles were made of steel wire. It would rip his buttocks to shreds.

Laine saw Arthur’s face. “Don’t worry Sir, I use the wooden side.”

“So, Sir?”

Arthur looked blank.

“You must say it, Sir. You must ask me to beat you.”

Arthur was swelling up with rage, but it would soon be surpassed with humiliation.

“Sir you must say it. And, say it nicely.”

Arthur thought he was going to cry, even before the first whack had contacted with his bum.

This was killing him, “Please would you beat me?”

“Why should I do that?”

Arthur was totally defeated, “Because I broke curfew.” There was a pause before Arthur found the courage to continue, “And, because I swore at you.”

“Yes, of course I shall. You deserve a very sound spanking and I shall ensure that you get it.”

With no further conversation, Laine moved a chair into the centre of the room. He sat down with his legs firmly planted on the floor and parted eighteen inches or so.

“I always ask the gentlemen to take down their trousers and underwear. There is no need to take them off completely, they can stay down at your ankles.”

Always ask? Arthur was baffled: he had done this before? Indeed, he had. Hardly a Friday or Saturday night concluded without one or more College undergraduates going over Laine’s lap for a bare-bottomed tanning.

Arthur thought about fleeing. He wouldn’t be able to stand a spanking from the servant: the pain and the humiliation would be too much. But, it wouldn’t be anything compared to a flogging from his father.

He tried to negotiate, “How many smacks will you give me?”

Smacks: Laine liked that. He did not give love-taps, the boy’s backside would be blistered and raw and running with sores before he finished.

“I haven’t got all night. Trousers, underwear down. Now!”

Arthur felt he was in a trance or it was an out-of-body experience. It must have been somebody else who unbuckled his belt, undid the buttons of his trousers, pushed them to the floor and then sent his underpants in the same direction. Then, taking a deep breath, he lowered himself slowly across the old man’s lap.

Of all the sensations he was to feel that night, one that stuck in Arthur’s mind was the smell of paraffin. He was almost overcome by its aroma; he supposed it must have been in Laine’s clothes somewhere.

The agony was intense. Some people say that a bare-bottom spanking laid on with force by a strong man with much experience, using a heavy brush or paddle, will leave the boy convinced he has sat on a hot coal fire.

Arthur was inclined to agree. Laine laid the brush on with brio, the first thirty slashes landed in the space of twenty-five seconds. That was enough to have Arthur howling! Laine pinned the undergraduate down at the legs and midriff so that he couldn’t move from his tormentor’s lap, nor could he wave his hands to intercept the blows. Laine truly was an expert spanker and Arthur was totally under his control.

Laine enjoyed whipping Arthur. He had only met the young man fifteen minutes earlier, but had already developed a hatred for him. The arrogant little so-and-so deserved all he was getting – and more.

Arthur yelled so forcefully, Laine feared if he might be heard in the rooms thirty yards away where the students and some masters were sleeping. He would take that risk: on and on and on he spanked his heavy wooden brush into buttocks that had already turned from scarlet to cherry. Blood was beginning to seep from wounds where fresh slashes of the brush landed on top of others.

Arthur was screaming his remorse, begging Laine for mercy. Not yet, Sir, Laine thought, not yet.

Laine was drenched in sweat; he had never beaten a boy so enthusiastically before. On and on he went until Arthur’s body went limp and the boy was silent.

Laine knew he hadn’t killed the boy, he could feel shallow breathing in the prostrate body. Contemptuously, he pushed Arthur from his lap so that he fell on the floor with a bump. Laine walked to a sink, filled a cup with water and threw the contents in the boy’s face. It revived him enough so that he could dress and on hands and knees drag himself to his room.

Arthur never missed curfew again, but he did revisit the Goat’s Head, this time making sure he had a full wallet.

 

Other stories you might like.

Caught in their underpants

The casting couch

The apprentices

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com